Byzantine Black
by rednightmare
Summary: A king will die in the castle he builds. VtM - Bloodlines political AU. (So this 1.3 Upgrade is turning out to be more game-changing than I thought. The story is still in readable condition, I swear.)
1. Firedogs

**DISCLAIMERS**

_**GENERAL DISCLAIMER: **_**Thank you to White Wolf and Troika for such an interesting universe to play in. I make no claim to any content you recognize as theirs, have no affiliation with either company, and make no monetary profit off my fan work.**

_**RATING DISCLAIMER**_**: Rated M for strong language, intense violence, adult themes and mean motherfuckers. **

_**CANON DISCLAIMER**_**: **_**Byzantine Black **_**is not intended as a criticism of Troika's original game, but it is an effort to recreate **_**Bloodlines **_**as opposed to retelli****ng it****. To that end, I've followed White Wolf's benevolent fan-stuff suggestion and significantly altered canon content. Strict canon aficionados won't care for **_**Byzantine Black**_**. And because this story is highly AU, please do not use it as a reference for canon in any way. If you have any questions about what is-and-isn't canon, address official White Wolf sources, or send me a PM.  
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_**CONTENT DISCLAIMERS**_**: **

**1. OFFENSIVE MATERIAL. **_**Masquerade**_** is a highly satirical world and this narrator is limited-omniscient. It follows that the opinions within this story are not necessarily – indeed usually not – representative of my own. But you knew that.  
**

**2. SPOILERS.**** I urge anyone who has not completed **_**Bloodlines**_** to do so before reading on.  
**

**3. SHIPPING. Added by Reasonable Request: Please note that _Byzantine Black_ is not a LaCroix x OC story. There are many LaCroix x OC stories here at FF to peruse. While _Byzantine Black_ does feature LaCroix, original characters and their relationships, if you're looking for a romance-driven work, this is probably Not The One. **

**READER INFO**

_**SERIES GUIDE: Byzantine Black**_** is continued in **_**Lumen Event**_**. They are intended to be read in this order and I strongly discourage reversing it.  
**

_**COMPANION WORKS**_**: **_**On White Shores**_** is a LaCroix-based one-shot. **_**For Honour**_** and **_**Harlem Sunset**_** are ongoing mini-stories exploring character backgrounds. You can read this bonus material at your discretion; they all harmonize with **_**Byzantine Black**_**, but they are not dependent upon it, nor it upon them.**

_**FINALLY**_**: So much gratitude is due to everyone who dropped me a line as I was working on this overgrown tale! I truly appreciate everything you've done and continue to do, both for the growth of this story and for its author. (Also, check out my profile page for links to some awesome BB-related artwork by talented artists **thinman** and **Saphyr88**.) **

**Thank you for reading!**

* * *

**BYZANTINE BLACK**

_We swelter like firedogs in the wind.  
- From Sylvia Plath's "Sleep in the Mojave Desert"_

* * *

**Firedogs**

Nines Rodriguez drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, stomped the clutch, and drove a dark road into downtown LA.

It was one of those noisy kind of nights tonight. No particular maker; just a big, muddled, everywhere-noise: salt wind that hissed, palm leaves that rustled, tire treads that whistled beneath the vehicle. These were the things following hot, thunderstorm days into hotter, sticking evenings. They were drowsy and murmured things. They were the things that tended to give your mind wandering legs, let your concentration soften somewhere else – and no matter how they sounded, Nines's mind needed to stay exactly where the fuck it was.

Seemed to be one of _those nights_ in Los Angeles more than not. It annoyed him, vaguely – the distraction of coast a rolling, tidewater pulse. Horns beeped tens-at-a-time. Bad asphalt hiccupped his tinny car radio. Kids killed each other. Unavoidable, the Brujah supposed; you could try ignoring what undeath wired in your eardrums, try forgetting about restlessness and danger, but you would not succeed. Nines Rodriguez heard everything now. He weeded out two dozen bovine conversations from each room he entered. He listened to gunshots miles away. He drove with the windows down and felt blacktop vibrate every single street-lit block.

Silver pickup, secondhand, AC broken; loaded pistols, heavy caliber; flatbed full of ammunition that rattled in some telltale skeleton way. These were Nines Rodriguez's things. These were what made LA Kind of Nights.

This city ran on an implacable heartbeat, an ugly bass line, and mortals were luckier than they knew not to contend with the constant racket. Humans were, at least. Animals felt it, he sometimes thought – mutts with muddy paws, snouts shoved through the passenger side, tasting air in inches between glass and metal. These lamplights flashed like dying against the rearview mirrors. Smog everywhere, side-effect of evolution. Too many voices talking at once. Rochelle said it was reassuring. It made her Childe sick and anxious.

He could not remember a time when there had not been a _city_ – St. Louis, Chicago, San Francisco and now The Angels. They were all different and they were all the same field in their own way. It was no surprise that these were the places blood flowed; kine, Kindred, whatever else gravitated towards the numb heat of movement on concrete. Too many predators in a cage, constantly turning, invested in hunting each other. It stoked paranoias, but more than that, set a particular mood they had come to rely upon. Mixed with the tarmac was always that faint scent of carnage and firepower. For them, it could only have been a city. No other venue could provide the needed pressure, dilute _noblesse_, allow for tribes built off reputation rather than courtrooms and hard cash. No other place could have fed the violent beat of a clan whose lifelines were buried in scorched earth. You could hold your ground here. Losses accumulated and necessitated the moves. All he could remember was this: the two-tone smell of soot or ash, fragile demarcation lines, fire-setting and intrigue in alley corners, how every shadow might hide a larger monster. All her hair to cinders, a cold gambit made in a warm summer by a chemical lake. Beneath it all was abstract hopelessness that could not overpower the desperation to fight.

For the Free-State, there had always been a city; there was always the promise, and always the death sentence it held.

Gristly as bygone wars had got, awful as his young crimes turned, fast as old foul plays faded sparse and fickle, what Nines remembered did not frighten him. It was what he could _not_ that stagnated in the pit of his gut. It was cigarettes on Sunday mornings, hamburger meat, midday sunburn and draft beer – gutters filled with far-off, intangible words now absent of sensation. Nights like these, sometime the Brujah got to thinking he could almost recall daylight, a tepid orange glimpse, blinking closed over crumbling corn in east Missouri. He'd had a baby-face and a bad haircut back then, shagginess that itched maddeningly at ears, nose bridge, brow. Now Nines's hair grew so damned fast he took a razor to it weekly. Black tendrils spotting sink porcelain, wet neckline, battery-powered buzzer at the back of his neck and _shit, may as well have been a fucking Gangrel_.

Decades upon decades ago – when LA's last in a long line of Barons had been a kid.

'_Smart kid, though,' _you had to hand that dated image – jaunty elbows, stupid smile, bird's-nest mop and all. The alias had been different back then… not a number but a real, honest-to-God name. Surprising that these details stuck when so many others spilled like cupfuls of rice grains in hand. Change for the best, though. He said so half for the way _Nines Rodriguez_ threatened pretentious townhalls and the Ventrue inside them, telling its own war stories; half because "David" would've made a Bible school joke. Hadn't fit, even then; mother who gave him the name couldn't say it right: _dah-vid, day-víd_ – culture erasure she never trained her tongue for. He still didn't know which way it was meant to be pronounced. What he _did_ know was a few smug Toreador sons-of-bitches likely to keel, laughing, right into dust piles over that sorry scenario, accent or no. Not so for Brujah shock troops huddling around dugouts and burning resentments for warmth. Theirs were a serious and dramatic people. You couldn't live mundaneness down.

The stereo rudely smacked its tongue at him, so he turned it off. Music was an inadequate disturbance, and in this growling junk-heap, usually the _crackle-hizt_ of static instead. Nines could remember a time when the public broadcasting concept was a middle-American phenomenon. Anarchs didn't tend to live long enough to don the proverbial Cape title these nights – himself West Coast top dog and nowhere near Elder status – but all these connections, all these points of light in a heartbeat's space, still occasionally blew his mind. He didn't feel old. Not really. But he felt like he'd been running for a very long time.

This Baron was not ancient, not washed-out, not brazenly zealous with fists brandished up high. He could adapt and prioritize. But that pragmatic, defeatist part of Nines had to wonder if their fight was already over when _he_ was the most veteran captain around.

Wheels rolled to a stop at the upcoming intersection. Rodriguez had been rummaging around in his dashboard for only a half-second before knuckles rapped the window. Faceless woman – features unmemorable, knees bare, small breasts jimmied to ridiculous heights, periwinkle lips popping at him. She looked like tinsel stolen out of a Santa Monica candy store. Nines waved her away. There was another convenience of urban life: where you worried every step about better fiends tearing your throat, you did not have to worry for food. In cities, you could focus on politics and territory bids rather than the basic nature of what you were. Maybe there was more than a passing philosophy in that truth; after death, it took the deadliest fixations to draw attention away from what little was left of who you used to be.

Humanity was a twofold balancing act – more complex than propagandists, including himself, liked to paint it – but still relatively straightforward. Everything bleached off together. External mirrored internal; after years of battlefield decisions, hardnosed justifications and dozens of grim calls made, you saw your face change before you ever realized it was wearing away.

But that dark reality in mind, leadership among the discontented was a simple machine, a commune where your titles were real but unconfirmed. You did what you had to. You were who you had to be. And if you could do that, then you can stand on the structures you raised – barricades block by block by block. It was a very fine line between disaster and unfriendly truce in California these nights. He could not afford many cracks, and they had no leeway to second-guess a quiet headman who suddenly found himself under crosshairs. He felt the mounting pressure like a weight as well-known as the handguns at both sides.

Nines had steadied this Domain within his hand for six years now. He had not signed or auctioned it away when long-toothed sharks came swimming by. He had not dropped it under siege or intimidation tactics from bureau heads in tailored suits. The farther away boundary claims pushed him, the tighter he'd clench. They may not call him "Baron" anymore – perhaps they never really had – but capricious negotiations and bankrolls exchanged were not this man's style of management. Baron Angeltown was not going to whimper away like the rest of them had... like some whipped bitch, limping into obscurity with mouth full of Camarilla cash, leash garroting a little more each swallow. He would dig the fuck in until this fat python felt spurs hit its ribs, shred all the way down, stretch its skin; until it bloated on a meal unswallowable; until he either burst out or burnt out. He would leave his legacy in char marks and deep scars. He had held Los Angeles for some time, and he had made his chokehold clear with the blood that began to fount and burble through this city's veins.

Open warfare was not an option with no more cities left. Nines Rodriguez would squeeze LA to death before he'd cede it. For each chapter of crime and foul history passed between them, for every soldier killed and pawn sacrificed, here the rules of anarchy and monopolies overlapped: lose your power, and you die.

In the space of a prostitute finding someone else's car, red neon blinked green and traffic spun off through downtown. It was an unfamiliar route on a very familiar street. _Left turn. Fifteen minutes. Bank right. Destination. _After reading countless government warnings and Grand Old Party tirades against exactly their sort of guerrilla-terrorist shit, Rodriguez could scarcely believe yanking LaCroix puppets' cords proved so easy. Something about all this sand must've poisoned his roots; the typical Princely short chain was avant-garded about by all Hollywood's pomp, diverted by Nosferatu clacking through sewers, bled by Kuei-Jin sucking the sap from Chinatown. A thousand corralled castoffs now scraped together in The Angels, seeding panic like dust mites. It was a high-octane rumble. Not like St. Louis. Not like Chicago.

Not tonight, anyway.

Cutting eyes – his were a pale, quicksilver blue – watched the back of a very particular parking lot arch into view. It looked sketchy: two dilapidated jalopies, a chop-job motorbike and rust-eaten van off-put by one spit-polished gray sports car. _Bingo_. That last automobile stuck out like the lone Malk in a Ventrue's boardroom: swank, svelte, patron-paid but still a sore goddamn thumb. Skyeline Apartments never did wrangle much decent business; plush lofts were filled with small-time jewelry thieves, aspiring socialites and, of course, the occasional grindstone corporate do-boy. '_One out of three ain't bad odds,' _or so _The Last Round_ Anarchs reasoned yesterday. He doubted Skelter got any sleep at all that morning. There were still tape stickers, copper wire and chemical stains on the scuffed basement floor.

Nines drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then wedged a cell phone between shoulder and earlobe.

"Skelter," he ordered. His was a curt and straightforward Midwestern drawl that had become recognizable in central LA. "Yeah, it's me. No, there's no problem. Listen: the job's set. I'm goin' to make sure everything goes through as planned, then I'm going home; I'll be back there tomorrow early with the specifics. Tell Damsel, all right? No, just do it. Because I don't feel like going through a motherfucking monologue and ten callbacks about the whole thing – that good enough for you?" A burst of laughter over the receiver, uneasy but genuine, followed by his lieutenant's emphatic yes. Skelter had always been a remarkably unsmiling man – a damned good soldier – and took what precious little humor he could find at their Den Mother's expense. Rodriguez was less-enthused. "Yeah," he murmured. "Thanks. Right. See you."

Nines closed and tucked the phone into a pocket opposite his currently lean wallet.

He didn't wait long until Skyeline's poorly-lit front peeked open, and a man stepped out.

To the casual observer, this individual was indistinguishable from your average late-night businessman: a clean-cut twenty-something accessorized with briefcase and not-enough-time. The blond hair, an Ivy League tennis star's belligerent clip, wide lapels, that cool and blasé confidence stamping any self-respecting graduate of the National Young Republicans. All status-quo, all attributes that screamed _suit_. Rodriguez knew better. There was blood congealing in those veins bluer than any eye or mouth. Even his name tasted moneyed and despicable: _Victor de Luca. _Shit like that made Nines want to spit.

This one was a tad more resourceful than most. Not that a little word like "resourceful" would make one damn bit of difference… not since he jotted on his résumé the smoking embers of two Anarch fledges, overeager bastards Sired by one of Smiling Jack's fixers in San Fran. Grapevine said both got snuffed laying on a stretch of sand somewhere by Long Beach. Dumb kids. Nines hadn't known either Childe, but met their maker once – some foxy, shades-wearing weirdo who liked her cigars as Puerto Rican as the blood she drank. Never could figure out what the hell she was doing with Jack. Business was business, though, and Rodriguez didn't have any asking. It didn't matter, anyway. Not for their purposes now.

There was only one thing left on the agenda tonight.

De Luca set his suitcase neatly on the hood, jingled for keys, and closed a manicure around a door handle. He opened.

Nines drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, and watched that Camarilla fuck's shitty Honda paint astrolite red across the black Angeles sky.


	2. Goliath

**Goliath**

Sebastian LaCroix calmly lowered the telephone, pushed "off" with one finger, and hurled it into his penthouse wall.

It was chain reaction. Chain reaction: the three boot-licking neonates that stood, the concern stamped across their vapid faces, the sycophantic rush to console him. They thankfully did not get very far. Prince Los Angeles was a livid shah, but also was, and had always been, a realist. Realists humored no empty consolations – no coddling, no cosseting, no foolish apologies from pups seeking to increase their rank. He would not abide deference padded with false exultations. He was old, Sebastian LaCroix, well-made and true as Ventrue of the modern era come; but he was not some hoary-eyed ancient withering for praise. He did not need the feeble self-assurances peons like these gave. And he would not be kowtowed to like a king with no clothes.

The glare he hatcheted towards them was not clear enough in its hatreds to stop this nonsense; the dictatorial press of his palms into desk did not convince. But martial force could. Stoic Sheriff LA – who knew much about this Prince, and more of his many tempers – lurched forward. This stopped the grovels when little else did. Pathetic state of affairs, Sebastian thought: when one had to sic dogs upon their own soldiers for a moment's peace. It could not be helped. Physical threats were too often the only thing that kept him from screaming his annoyance these evenings, a volatile mogul with a hound on his leash. The soulless red stare of a Nagloper demanded silence faster than any insult might. Growling pets were crass, granted - distasteful in civilized continents - still very useful when it came to discouragement.

LaCroix's impatience was too cool and his fuse too short to mind beasts. He was offended more by children than monsters, and so kept the animal around for show. Interesting acquisition; satisfactory reminder of past exploits; but far more useful as an intimidation device. The stone shadow behind him in this gilt tower provided every proof of power Sebastian would need.

Yet even a collared ape, massive as it was ugly, couldn't block the tier-climbers completely. Every Camarilla child in this district was desperate to curry favor with him, and why wouldn't they be? – baseless canaille, unable to win spoils of their own. They prattled on and _on_ with these stale admirations, these nervous inquiries, this disgusting serenade. All were gestures that maddened a disciplinarian man. Their appeals leapt from lickspittle mouths.

_"Sir, are you all right?"_

_"If there's something I can do-" _

_"What would you have from me?" _

They hit Sebastian's nerves like breaking musket shot. The Prince's eyes sharpened terribly, a Persian blue at boil; his nails dug the mahogany of desk chair as he stood. It was a stiff and deliberate motion. Silhouettes against the colonial fireplace were a frightening sort of elegance. Outside, the city was late November; indigo poured in behind him through a large window with fragile panes. Margraves should loom their battlements like so – terse, unsatisfied, spine straight, aristocrat malice, Dracul in Armani. Symmetry was the evidence of his finely-tailored rage.

"Shut up," he hissed, barking one of the handshakers off. Disdain festered between neat brows. _'Sycophants all,' _thought the Prince, something like mild despair sinking into that void where a stomach once sat. _'Sycophants and parasites all.' _

Victor de Luca began an unlikely bet, a misbegotten sprig of politics that grew into a pet project… something that might have – given enough time and polishing – matured to corporal status. He had cut off his Sire's head and smelled her ashes cook on the theatre stage. It would've been sensible to snuff the Childe, as well, yet hostility took no roots; instead, _fealty_. The nascent Ventrue's belief in LA's magistrate was as foolish as it was unreserved, a hair-trigger desire to please, a telltale sign of officers eager to follow. Untrained, poorly-bred, brought into this world by the illegal cavorting of some faceless underling he did not care to name… all unfortunate starting steps. But there was a potential for service there that could not be ignored. He had been a useful variety of loyal: judgmental, vocal, blunt as bad ironwork to his superior - a trait combination Sebastian encountered rarely. God, LaCroix actually thought that violent and mechanical boy trusted him. Absolute faith tended to blindside a politician, Kindred or kine. It was too remarkable to be discarded. And, truth be told, this once-young Armée captain glimpsed what was perhaps a foil of himself in the cruel, chary lines of his orphan-child's face.

He was always a bothersome sixteen minutes early for every appointment. He wrote only in black ballpoint ink. He wore Oxford shirts and claimed kinship with at least one Dow Jones viking of small notoriety.

Victor de Luca was either incredibly shrewd, LaCroix thought, or cement brick dull.

Case in point, Victor de Luca would've made an excellent operative or a steadfast snitch. Unfortunately, what little remained of him likely wouldn't fill a mortuary bargain urn.

And what, precisely, did that leave his supervisor with? This gaggle of half-baked fledglings, cubs clawing out each others' eyes for the chance to lick a better's wounds. Even now they stared robotically at him, chalk-cheeked from being scolded, forked tongues sucked back into throats. There was not one measly, monochrome ounce of dedication to grind out of the entire lot. Indeed: _sycophants all_. They were wriggling leeches, revolting and rapacious. They were unfortunate necessities to political progress he would have rather picked off. This Prince was not fond of lapdogs with no bite. Sebastian was ever a man of the times, not some fusty and outdated doyen poking at crumbling archives, shrinking in a dank deathbed. Furthermore, he was not one to be left behind by technology or the paces it encouraged… yet something about this current crop of troops stoked his derision. It was the ease of contemporary society, perhaps; hand-holdings and security blankets from human institutions made poor foundations for achievement in afterlife. These younglings were from a different, weaker era: where you were born with natural right, gifted for trifles, and lead dumbly to success like the carthorse who follows carrots on a string.

He had tolerated the vain and bootless blows of a dwindling Free-State long enough. This was the very last straw.

Sebastian could see the missing substance, the leaks in these bleating lambs around him. He could peer into what little there was – wispy, gaseous swill that sold itself as crisp, pungent Camarilla blood. In reality, they were a foul concoction of stunted aspirations born from Sires mere handbreadths above them. The name of a Sire alone meant nothing to him.

Prince LaCroix had been reared by a hard world that knew and made the truth of it: inherited generation, status unearned, and the praise of nepotistic fathers meant nothing when faced with motivation, intelligence and brutality. It is in both science and culture, economics and art. Control is dictated by cunning. The best have a right to rise to the top.

Behave like servants, then a servant you shall stay. The pecking order of undeath is simple: how it should be, how it would be.

Yet they were still perched there, hesitating, _watching_. For what he had no cause or desire to imagine. The depressing trio's speaker, a fang-licking and spectacularly unimpressive sock puppet, had done little but smear her lipstick. Two men stood abreast to fidget nervously, fists-in-pockets. It was a very familiar and very irritating scene.

The female Sebastian knew well by this day and year – a preening creature who occupied his front lobby, garbed in ridiculous scarlet, employed for menial surveillance. But these bland henchmen he could not have identified. All three of them together here looked like a page torn from bottom-shelf Parisian paperbacks: one ring-leading harlequin flanked by her black-haired Russian cavaliers. LaCroix loathed them. Had he been a more impulsive authority, the Ventrue might have ripped their stupid, colorless expressions off each penciled-in face. That would not do for a twenty-first-century Prince, however. Instead, he slumped forward against the desk, head hanging upon lean shoulder-blades. He picked up his fist and he banged it. A convenient blond forelock had slipped and obscured those turkeys from his view.

"Mr. LaCroix," the woman tried, her thick, Toreador French as timorous and overdone as the fingernails that nervously touched a taut cinnamon topknot. Gold earrings masquerading as seashells winked beneath lobes. Good manners masquerading as diplomacy – she held out her hand as a peace treaty; rhinestones dotted one waifish, spider-veined wrist. Fraud, flimsy mademoiselle. Thirty years this sting had served him now, and Sebastian angered at the sight of her red, red mouth. "Please, Sir; we don't wish to inconvenience you. We understand you are in a social imposition. Allow me, monsieur, if I may-"

"_No_, you may not," he dismissed, English that popped her attempt in two, a formulaic pluck at each consonant. His lips were an alarming, cyanotic blue in the marbled chamber. Harvest moonlight sawed along the breadth of Sebastian's back. He was not a large man in body, but - science and culture, religion and history - it is not-large men whom bite back the wrath of giants.

"I'm sorry if I have said or done something to displease you," was her second attempt, cupped hands tightening at the woman's naval. She wore a carmine-colored suit beneath lofty Germanic cheekbones. Her words and her flamboyant persona were both part-ruse. "To be sure, I didn't mean it. You should not have to trouble with so many stresses; allow us to remove some of them. There must be some way I can assist you?" The question clicked as tentatively as a gun lock, an obedient feminine snick. Her dense cohorts chewed on their tongues and anticipated explosion. To the triad's collective relief, however, it did not come. Prince Los Angeles granted them only that fleeting, wintry glance.

One came to wonder if the Childer of this age realized how pointless they were – if it was in their nature to be effusive, or merely the zeitgeist of a commercial world. Expendables, deadwoods, all byproducts of this crutched decade. What a shame it was that numbers and dispensable armies had become standard tactics. How different it had been in old war theatres, where a fleet of cannon-feeders might not match the clout of a single, level-headed, well-whetted corporal.

"Believe me, Joelle." Contempt pressed flush against Sebastian's fangs. His displeasure was unmissable, directives unpleasant rime. His speech was oddly formal and yet heatedly short. "Were it that any one of you drunken minutemen could shoot straight, this organization would not have to depend upon the survival of its chicks. I don't have time humor your inadequacies. I don't have the leeway for it. If you truly sought to 'assist' me, madam," he spat, a castration, "you would forgo the cooing and do something valuable. _Actually _valuable; I'm not referring to your appearance, Ms. Lefevre. I am certainly not referring to standing here in front of me apple-polishing. But if the three of you among yourselves cannot _find_ something, I have no use for you - tonight or any night. Do I make myself clear? You will speak to me when I have a need to hear you, Joelle; otherwise, flitter back downstairs and sit at your switchboard."

From the fledgling came one soft, strangled mewling sound – a disciplined corgi bitch.

"You two: get out." He did not have to say it twice. Ms. Lefevre's worthless attendants were eager to depart, dark suits abandoning their fish-hooked sister in the lion pit. Sebastian LaCroix – gold mane, stern regality, surly haunches – lacked only the swishing tail.

No matter how many militiamen you accrue, beating drums and begging for handouts, wise commandants always keep a corporal waiting in the wing.

Aggravations vented for the time being, Los Angeles's Prince left his desk, its pink indentations pushed into both hand heels. He dismissed the dismal woman, a chastisement done; passed his menacing Sheriff, a tyrant's house wolf, without notice; and regarded that row of ominous office windows. Each step clicked Gestapo heels against the floor. Each step made the lingering neonate a sweat drop sicker. Glass peered cleanly into an inky West Coast evening. The yellow moon waned against a steady canopy of skyscrapers, antennas forking higher, spears in the air. Ambition, steel and concrete strove to _reach_. There were a billion points of light burning across the city beneath him.

"Ms. Lefevre." She looked. "One final thing."

"Anything you ask," Joelle swore - meant, unmeaningful, her own interests a chapel best protected by the worship of a Prince.

The dial tone was dead in this tall room.

"I want you to phone London," he said, finality, decision made. "Get Ms. Woeburne. And get her here."


	3. Frequent Flyer

**Frequent Flyer **

"Miss?"

Serena Woeburne startled up, _AirMart Magazine _skittering upon the nylon of her knees.

"Sorry to bother you, miss," mumbled the cleanly-shaven flight attendant, wincing polite, tired eyes. "But you'll have to tuck that bag completely beneath the seat before landing. Just a safety precaution, is all."

Rodger, having worked these trans-Atlantic overnights two-years-and-counting, developed a sensitivity to anxiety. He could detect it sink beneath the hollow expressions of dark-time flyers. He could read the small itches and twitches. He did not need to push or pry. And - in this professional's opinion, for all her business-class pomp and good posture - the woman sitting alone in aisle 4A looked shaken beneath that smart black suit. Toes tapped in intimidating pumps. Short nails smoothed out nonexistent wrinkles in a pencil skirt, adjusted her safety belt. An overpowering hairspray smell wafted from the severe brown bob-cut, but powerful Continental air conditioning, constant and punishing, had frizzled through its chemicals. Dry strands flustered along her brow and stuck to blazer lapels. It would've been obvious to anyone, Rodger thought, that this poor corporate had been steadily wilting since she'd stepped aboard the Boeing 747 at Gatwick Airport.

The passenger blinked at him behind wiry glasses. Her eyes were the sea-brine color of Spanish olives, critical, and somehow unkind. "Yes, right. Sorry," she mumbled, lunging forward to manhandle the knapsack into an acceptable place. Her tone was worried, prickly English; her words were precise; her accent twanged, slightly imperfect, the stamp of a multi-national. The underlying voice struggled modulate its tense, flat ring. It was a swift and uncompromising mezzo soprano. Butterflies tightened the round, short face. Flimsy ankles jiggle beneath heel straps. Neatly-sheared brunette curled along the edge of her narrow chin. Too much blush turned shallow malars a deathly shade; purple tried to etch disciplinarian angles into soft cheeks, but there was nothing soft about her demeanor at all.

Rodger gave a sheepish, comforting smile. "I can see you're preoccupied. I hate to pester you, but I do have to follow regulations," he said, arm braced on the seat back, watching Serena attempt to wedge her parcel into a smaller shape than it was. Buckles snagged, bands wrapping around chair legs. "Can you fit it under there? I'd be happy to help you stow it in the overhead compartment."

"No, that's… just give me a … won't be necessary," she fobbed-off, all jerky movements, partridge bones and forced grin. It was cold and perfunctory. Small, sterilely white teeth flashed in a dark mouth. She pressed one stiletto down and gave it a stubborn shove. "Thank you. I've got it under control."

There was a jet engine rumble that reminded the flight attendant of his job; he found her feeble reassurance strangely convincing. Maybe it was stress - so many other things to do. "That will do, miss; you're all right there. Thank you. Wouldn't believe the offense some people take to my mothering." The steward winked, palm popping upholstery. He was a little theatrical by design.

"Not at all," Ms. Woeburne returned. Her eyelids crinkled amiably, and Rodger felt gratified to see his disarming nature hadn't lost its charm. She was almost precious – in a sullen, paralegal sort of way.

"Much obliged for your cooperation, miss. I'd comp you a drink if I wouldn't get my knuckles rapped for it."

Serena's smile evaporated the moment his back faced her, and she watching that checkered, ridiculous shirt clip down Flight 584's center aisle.

The Ventrue pushed her foolish magazine into a holster and leant backwards, desperate for distraction, not wanting to talk. It was difficult calming her thoughts. There was an annoying, pink-eyed rush from the vent overhead; plastics rattled everywhere; cushion leather rumpled through tweed and pantyhose. She had checked her wristwatch at least two dozen times since the descent announcement… two dozen times, and no less fretful. Ms. Woeburne always took great care, you see, plotting out travel times (for obvious reasons); her clan did not abide slouches, let alone poor preparations, and she was a _prodigious_ preparer even among bluebloods. But airline delays had knocked this tidy schedule about, each missed minute wracking a nerve. A disturbing periwinkle shade already dusted the North American night, prelude to a creeping, rainy dawn.

She hated flying. _ Hated it._ A needless but reaffirming puff of air pushed itself through the strict set of Ventrue nose.

Beings so easily scorched should not be hoisted high, zipping through watery cloud-cover, stuck in an airborne cheese can before open sky. It was a tremendous imposition. It brought feelings of doom and vulnerability upon the officer. It stoked her fight-or-flight center and it made every mundane apprehension itch worse.

Lord knew Ms. Woeburne had enough mundane apprehensions to keep her restless and itching for the next eternity.

Serena pursed her lips, tugging at the neat cuffs of jacket sleeves. A car should be idling just outside John F. Kennedy Airport; the complimentary ride, chauffeured by someone's irritating ghoul, would shuttle her to a safe layover destination until an available LAX-bound flight. Just as well. Prince Los Angeles's Childe felt no hurry to sprint off for palm trees and manufacturing smog; that city was unknown territory. New York wasn't exactly home any longer, and perhaps it never truly had been, but stirred faded images of an old life: independence, happy goose bumps, loan checks, getting lost in shore-side haze. Human memories were a modest balm against the more immediate threat of charred meat, however. Ms. Woeburne was a nervous personality by nature. It did, however, console to know there'd be plenty of hell to pay should anything unnecessarily jeopardize her life. Sebastian would see to it.

'_Two favorites crisped in a forty-eight-hour window?' _Serena could scarcely wish her Prince's reaction to such news upon anyone.

She had not been personally acquainted with Victor de Luca, and knew of the Associate only through an extensive series of background checks Mr. LaCroix requested four months ago. This was precisely how his remote protégé kept herself privy to most Camarilla business. While Sebastian insisted she remain in Europe to oversee his Hendon estate – a house bailiff, if you will, extension of her Sire's arm – any files too sensitive for neighborhood channels were often ushered there. They carried one short inscription: _For Ms. Woeburne. _And sure as he kept sending information, a thousand secret documents were processed, dated, filed and locked away in the darkest recesses where her master need not remember them anymore. Serena had no context to profit from or questionable connections; she was bound by blood and legal contracts; she was quietly efficient and quashed natural urges to scheme against her betters with reserve. She obeyed sans self-serving excess and did not waste. There was no need to sully her stoicism with every political detail. There was certainly no reason to rally attention to a curt, competent, bureaucratic corporal.

However many miles stood between tin-soldier and commandant, she was ultimately his creation, and the knowledge of that seemed to put them both at ease.

Oh, the form-buried Foreman supposed this compact was a source of honor; men like Sebastian LaCroix offered little warmth or patronly tenderness, but she savored the respectability of those red-stamped manila envelopes. Hundreds of more experienced candidates were available for this job – older, wiser, more conniving operators. Yet he trusted her – chose to rely upon his conscientious youngest Childe in lieu of those whose ambitions might supplant him. It was not precisely how she'd first pictured being an elder monster's attendant, true… waking decades ago with bandaged arms and a strange wanting echo in her stomach. But maybe, beneath the dressings of mortality, that tang of worthiness wrapped up her life's goal all along. She had become dependent upon the gingery tension responsibilities brought, clutching confidential folders tightly to an unbeating chest.

It was still not clear exactly why he'd summoned her, so suddenly and without much explanation. But one does grow accustomed to vagueness and impatience from a vampire lord.

Serena Woeburne had come into the possession of Prince LaCroix in the early 1970s, an ambivalent participant in Dartmouth University's graduate exchange. She was average as a student – one of many faceless high-scorers, preferring weekend classes and night seminars, rarely appearing on a campus that only recently went co-ed. That standoffish memory of a girl largely considered herself too grown-up for hand-raising and blackboard-writing nonsense. Work took precedence; work, as a matter-of-fact, in an all-departments career program loosely affiliated with the New England finance company Sebastian kept for public face. She pinched pennies and downed vile amounts of espresso in a chaotic apartment not far from Manhattan, wondering if her efforts were anything but empty expectations. To this day, the woman could remember sitting in a drab first-floor coffeehouse after office hours, scribbling out a graduate thesis on some art that didn't matter. It had been an essay about the late writings of Phillip Larkin. She had been twenty-six years old.

Serena would not have called herself an agent, though she understood that was the appropriate term. Her daily darg hadn't undergone the same metamorphosis her body did. Employment under Mr. LaCroix mostly involved menial tasks, errand-running and report-cataloguing before her Embrace; why ought it upscale just because her blood had? Apparently she had proven brilliant at the ordinary – a master of bookkeeping, safeguarding, organization, discretion! For – rather than permit his favorite gofer quit, return to a bitter mother in Leeds, teach, wed, age then die – Sebastian offered a promotion and delivered undeath. Undeath turned out to be a luxurious but intensely private lifestyle, her uses defined not by action-hero stunts or courtroom speeches, but by sorting out the mediocre paperwork of crime.

Mediocrity, perhaps… but exceptionally so.

Their comfortable rapport remained, for lack of better word, comfortable; it was polite, impersonal, and based primarily upon data-mining. It followed that the fairly short time she'd spent as Kindred changed little for Ms. Woeburne. In fact, exempting a voracious appetite and well-founded fear of sunrises, the Childe found it halfway pleasant. Immortality had proven _convenient_, if nothing else. Serena did not consider herself overly materialistic in a relative world of photoshopped five-year-olds, but appreciated not having to fret over grey hairs. Supernatural endurance was a perk that tamed heart-pounding midnight alleys into boring shortcuts. And, as she'd never really bothered with friends, broken relationships were forgotten then replaced by that first chamomile taste of vintage O+.

So the Prince's progeny spent her time attending to whatever commonplace business he required, and – by his direction – extra hours honing "practical" skills. Serena had acquired a mildly interesting collection of them over the years: light encryption, basic Board statutes, and a (very) occasional jujitsu lesson. Those last ones had ended badly, though. Instead, on Sebastian's suggestion, the woman visited a shooting range every third Saturday toting a polished nine-millimeter Kahr. She'd gotten rather good with it, too. But decades and boredom will do that to one; smoking holes in silhouette men were entertaining only to a point. Otherwise, she ached for purpose in those odd free hours where neither duties nor visiting Harpies called. Ms. Woeburne read and reread to fill long evenings – some vestige of humanness clung pointlessly to classic literature – legs tucked on an uncomfortable velvet dustball of couch, listening to her old Sinatra records, lily vases struggling to be quixotic. LaCroix's Childe thought this either existentially romantic or absolutely laughable, depending on her mood.

Serena made it a point never to touch that bloody grand piano in the lobby, though. She'd hated the instrument ever since Mother first saddled her boarding school luggage with a cheap Yamaha keyboard disguised as a departure present. Appreciating the arts did not mean one had to excel at them personally.

"_Leave it to those strumming their lutes in the Toreador whore-keep. We are technical creatures," _as Sebastian said, eyebrow quirked, not quite joking. His descendent had thrown out a flimsy smile, nodded, and logged this opinion away for a rainy night. She did similarly with most comments her Sire made.

One needn't excel to appreciate. It was a sensible statement, obvious logic – and it was just as one needn't have actually enjoyed their past life to think on it, once in a blue moon. Yes, sometimes – when five-AM sunlight lanced off the metal shutters of that pompous, too-maroon Victorian master bedroom Mr. LaCroix designated to his Childe – Serena tossed in clean sheets and wondered if Mother ever wept for her. But not very often. Maudlin garbage, considering her mother had been a dated and flinty shrew, no one to love once she grew out of it. Curiosity was probably a product of scabs on her pride – the knowledge that it was unlikely anyone else noticed young Ms. Woeburne had disappeared.

But! – on the whole, Serena liked Sebastian much better than she had liked Mother. The Prince delegated worthwhile orders and brisk faith across leagues of ocean. Furthermore, Mr. LaCroix did not care one cent whether or not his Childe could reproduce a Bach concerto, match well, follow her brother overseas or look less like a father who'd left them behind.

Mother would be so proud – so terribly, awfully _proud _of the man whose interest she'd caught.

Never mind the fact he'd requested help on accounts and killed her.

Acquisition by a Camarilla Prince _was_ a disturbing lot like marrying rich, though, or so it had begun to seem after so many years. One's living quarters, professional wardrobe and general amenities were provided in exchange for commitment and simple compliance. There was a great deal of tedious smiling, hand-shaking and emphatic nodding involved – cordiality proper for any lady of the house – but all small prices for guaranteed protection. Serena found she did not mind. Life grew especially satirical every winter, when Sebastian promised he'd treat her to the theater while visiting London but never found time. No great loss, though. Ms. Woeburne was never a period-piece connoisseur, and had plenty of expendable income to purchase her own tickets for stormy evenings… or, more frequently, to placate visitors who'd called for a Prince's attentions and gotten his PA.

Serena enjoyed many privileges and benefits over the course of her service. Funny he had never spared the one she would've really appreciated now: a private jet.

Minor neglect and the associated complaints aside, there were rarely hard feelings between gosling and progenitor. This life had been a reliable one, and she welcomed the security his profile ensured. She was not lazy or spoilt rotten - she retained her middle-class sensibilities from life, and did not mind checking wealth for realism's sake. But make no mistake: her attachments were not entirely apathetic. Envy was alive and well, mostly. Despite their detached partnership, Serena perceived the recent pangs of disappointment from her Sire – sensed Mr. LaCroix's irritation that he had not gotten to de Luca first – and was jealous. She liked being the proverbial baby of Sebastian's house, selfish and insecure as it was, coveting a position unique to her. Victor and his chilly, aggressive cleanness threatened the prickly only child more than she'd admit. Woeburne was ashamed to derive happiness from a death (a clanmate's death, on top of that), but couldn't deny the news of his untimely murder relaxed her hackles. Relief was the sharpest after-Embrace sensation she'd experienced thus far, like chugging ice-water after a long jog, merciful coldness that went down with a sting.

'_So much for Humanity,' _the woman snorted to herself.

There was no avoiding it, anyway – so she tucked an umber band of hair behind one ear and sighed, pressing her skull against the dilapidated neck pillow._ 'Once this mess is over, I'm going to ask Sebastian for a holiday. Beach does blather on and on and on about how lovely the Left Bank is in May. Maybe it's worth a reminder.' _She paused. _'Or maybe I am just in horrible need of somewhere else to be.'_

A stay in Los Angeles, then, might be enough.

Ms. Woeburne indulged a snide image of vacationing postmortem – fanged femme fatale, sipping tea alfresco, daintily adjusting her sun hat – when a sudden buck of turbulence whipped the Ventrue's head into upholstery and wrought out an embarrassingly ladylike shriek.

The Boeing's intercom flipped on as Serena became aware of critical eyes. She shrunk into her seat cushions. The adjacent rows twisted around to glare. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain officially welcoming you to New York City. The weather is a nippy forty-five degrees with a slight breeze. Please remain seated with belts fastened until the plane has come to a complete stop," reminded their pilot, some heavy-handed southwestern baritone, forgettable direction in a forgettable journey. "As always, thank you for flying United and enjoy your time here in this beautiful town. Have a good night."

Ms. Woeburne, cheeks burning, retracted her claws from her armrests and checked the time. _Four and thirty-eight o'clock. _

If that car wasn't choking exhaust by the time her heels hit pavement, Serena swore she would kill the driver herself.


	4. This be the Verse

**This be the Verse**

_Man hands on misery to man.  
- Larkin_

* * *

Nines Rodriguez squinted, turned over, and catapulted his fist into the buzzing alarm clock.

_7:25 PM_

The Brujah sat up upon his thinning cot. It was a bleak, cool evening – shadows in a barren apartment – and he was alone.

Baron Angeltown shook off his sleep in an unhappy hurry. It was how he did most things these days; he had large goals, large fatigue, large fingers that fumbled ineptly with that bitching clock for a few more minutes before finally shutting it off. Sleep-dumb digits; bad temper. Couldn't make his fucking hands work in this imperfect light. Wasn't a night particular worse or better than others; just that _sound_, shrill and air raid loud, never failed to stand his fine hairs right up. He was not sure why. Maybe it was an imprint, a relic left behind. Beyond predator senses that saw through the darkness, there lingered some mortality – buried deep – to make this old Anarch's head pound, make blood surge through his heart.

Machine winked off three seconds before he pitched the bawling thing into a wall. Black coldness settled. He exhaled.

Rodriguez tossed the clock back upon its rickety bedside table, not bothering with the lightswitch, rubbing open palms over a weary face. His eyes hurt, he noticed, the cottony sting of walking windy streets. A nagging pinch twisted in the center of his brow. Dry throat. The winter sun had sunk beneath LA's skyscrapers one hour ago, and already was there a strange, uncomfortably warm hole thrumming the pit of his gut.

Nines kicked off his sad sheet, got both feet on the floor. Piece-of-shit mattress might have had something to do with waking up beat half the time. It was a basic springboard, rusting slightly, poor metal that screeched in ungodly ways with every weight shift. _"I don't have time to worry about motherfucking furniture"_ was his current excuse. Downtown's Baron never had time for a goddamn thing, if he was to be believed. Then again, Rodriguez had been meaning to find a new place for months - since right after his last displacement, a one-night move made because he saw a weird car and got a bad feeling.

Nines had more bad feelings than he had good ones since Sebastian LaCroix rolled in the tanks. But he listened to his intuition - that itching small-voice, the one always making him speed up, squint harder, look another time. And he was still alive. It was more than could be said of others; more than could be said post-San Fran, post-MacNeil, post-frontline, post-all.

So-called Haven _was_ more like a destitute basement than a bunker, though. You walked straight down from outside into the undecorated living room - left concrete stairs, damp cement and spider webs for flickering TV and carpetless floors. Shitty color of wood. There was no couch; just a creaky round breakfast table, waterlogged desk he didn't need, two simple chairs. Rest of that open space was surrounded by peeling, pinstriped green wallpaper like depression. All the pipes condensated. No windows to this one-bedroom, though; only the corner kitchen peered glumly in with its cabinets that didn't close tight and its thick cream paint, a dim shade. There was really nothing pleasant about the place. The tiles under his shower and unused stove might have been sunshine orange once, but now it was a flat adobe tan. Radiator gathered dust at the end of a stunted, claustrophobic hall. Bathroom was first on the left and the light kept going out. He kept his bedroom door shut.

There were probably enough finances leftover to patch it up between ammunition taxes, bribery cash and warfare fallback. Seemed pointless, though. Currency took many forms, from gold standard to expert services and friendship guaranteed. Besides, the debts of a Free-State were more than wealth displays or bank accounts could pay off; their settlements came in vicious tones, their revenue bloody. Violent exchange was the way his people understood the world. It was how this city, and all cities, functioned.

Fortunately, someone taught him how to rig the vice game long ago. Rodriguez had a few kids running rounds on the sly, pushing neighborhood drug sales to support their arsenal and public properties; contacts down south, saved from his Sire's days, trucked merchandise when they could. It wasn't a hard market to crack. Illicit trade could generate considerable cash for Brujah neonates, half of whom had already been dealing before their Embrace. Give them an outlet to make money – for you and for themselves – and the ambitious would impress. Dens provided muscle for pragmatists and family for those inclined to have it; vampirism granted confidence; friends ensured quality products (plus he didn't check too closely), so they usually delivered.

Always seemed to be humans making Kindred rich – human demand and human suffering – but Nines was in no position to complain. War torched through resources, something Camarilla bean-counters could testify to. And their belts were tight these nights. Methamphetamines, pharmaceuticals, hallucinogens and the occasional home-brewed explosive did what they could to fill Anarch hands and shotgun cylinders where allies' generosity fell short. Sketchy revenue, but income that served a purpose. Bought plenty of guns. Bought that damn truck, matter-of-fact. Most importantly: Free-State Los Angeles had a tidy new ordinance stockpile buried in Griffith Park thanks to the business of mortal addictions. Emergency demolitions were a critical backup plan in this changing political climate, and an added dose of security that could not be compromised - not for idealism, not for danger pay, not because his cheap apartment was leaking at the edges. Every bullet brought them closer to a march. Every locked crate rattling in battered flatbeds stacked their deck higher. Every fistful of crinkled bills edged them farther out from under that ugly steel tower's shadow.

The Baron didn't spend enough time boxed up in here to care much about his personal residence, anyway. What _did_ concern him was that this inglorious complex primarily housed junkies, petty thieves and call-girls, most of whom were too busy chasing the fucking dragon to make inquiries. Once in a blue moon, their skull-capped landlord – speedy, small-framed gecko of a man – would come knocking on the doors, but usually left rent-collecting to his ma, who used no more than kindergarten English. _Pagué el lunes_ and _é__l tiene el dinero_ was about the intensity of his Spanish, anyway. So long as each mailbox coughed up a suitable fold of monthly cash, that decaying woman didn't care about her tenants' nocturnal lifestyles, absences or even the strange, unsettling quality of #_1C_'s stare. She did not try to speak with him. She probably thought he was an undercover narc or general soldier of ill-repute. This was absolutely fine with Nines. The whole address had a sizzling Agent Orange odor about it – Lysol, risotto and rat poison – which, go figure, deterred Camarilla just as it did rabid vermin.

Bent over a bathroom sink, sinuses sore, artificial lighting cast the hunched planes of Rodriguez's back a little off-center from human. He turned on the spigot, watching cupped fingers flood. City tap tasted like iron, but brought a chill that felt good against his tired face. Important to have something to ground you in these wake-alone-times. There was always that off-minute, always that odd twang, when you'd catch the reflection of yourself after Embrace; couldn't explain it, not before it happened. You identify the body, know intellectually that it's yours. You can see familiar lines and edges right where they ought to be. And yet you don't feel their pull, their relief, _the yes-that's-right_ confirmation of reality. You don't quite recognize that mirror as being _you_. Maybe because it was dead.

This dissonance got worse over decades, and he didn't bother wondering if it was common or just him. The image looking back at Nines Rodriguez had glass-blue eyes, sunken now; dark tissue under both lids; broad lips pale beneath a sallow bulb. The single freckle at their right corner tried its best to make him look like a person. He rubbed hard to get blood back into his cheeks before twisting off a valve; the faucet protested with sharp, startled squeaks.

Rodriguez forewent the maintenance shave and wandered back to scavenge some clothes: undershirt, boots, jeans (relatively unworn). Damsel started harping at him last year to make bulletproof part of his daily routine, something that probably would've been wise, but Nines had concerns about appearing afraid. He put everything else on. It took about that long before another wave of hunger snap-crackled through his gut.

There was a lot of backlash to check-up on today. There was a lot that could have gone wrong.

He pulled open the refrigerator, collarbone and shoulders made ash in its anemic yellow glow. Empty racks hummed back – a scattering of beer cans, one fogged half-bag of bagels (stale), and a carton of milk for appearances. In the crisper, three plastic skins of tangy A+. Nines didn't like to use his reserve, considering how fast disaster could turn this home into a fox-hole; prudent vampire might scrape along near one week drinking conservatively. Being lazy was not a suitable excuse. Tonight required a fresher entrée.

Rodriguez forfeited his search and threw the milk out.

He grabbed for a coat, tucked keys and wallet into his back pocket, then strolled through the door with a Colt hidden safely between belt and spine.

One scummy flight of stairs took Nines above ground and immediately onto the street, entrance set below sidewalk level in an old urban style. The alley was already climbing with typical drudge: gang lieutenants, stoners, prostitutes and those who profited off them. It wasn't hard for any reasonably discreet vampire to sift into this mix. Beast of a different sort - the veneer of bad news provided excellent cover for someone like him, enough not to flaunt fangs. Of course, there were occasional incidents. Usually muggers - fuckheads with switchblades and balloon egos, dogging bucks off drifters - kids with gats, thought guns made them gangsters. They usually ended up lunch. These were the certain kinds of people that went down in fast, grimacing gulps, slick and unsatisfying like flat soda pop. Always left you somewhere between disgusted and needing more. Sort of a waste; convenience beat out fine dining in that police rarely scoured sewers, but once in a while, big carnivores had to find meatier stock. Quality produce wandered these dregs few and far between… which was precisely why Nines found himself driving down Hollywood Boulevard on a quarter-tank of gas.

Not that Hollywood made everything better. _Anything_ better. He hated this varnished color of nightlife – strobe lights, glitzy skirts, ridiculous cars and constant snare. American Dreamtown was a slum with nice cufflinks, you ask his opinion, but it wasn't as if there were many other viable safe zones. None that a smart Anarch would've trusted, anyway. _Confession_ was packed full of freakish ghouls playing for Cam agents, listening close, and there was no way in a shadow of Hell Rodriguez would hunt anywhere near Voerman properties. He'd never been around _The Asylum _personally, as Therese was a well-known extension of LaCroix Empire (weak-kneed bitch declared Santa Monica Camarilla-only shortly after his swearing-in). There was nothing for them in beach sand or fuel surf. And one needn't strain their eardrums a whole hell of a lot to pick up six-dozen rumors about that walking horrorshow named Jeanette.

Nines had no interest in poking around those viper pits. A drive by Ash Rivers's pouty little club was usually sufficient. Hollywood was rapidly becoming unbearable, but it remained a protected feeding ground: Free-State friendly and inhospitable to trigger-happy company scouts. That Toreador whelp was about on par with teenage rebel, of course, but he was still Isaac's Childe and thereby fellow Anarch blood. Cramped times. Curtailing the melodramatic kid's excesses was a major pain in his Sire's ass, and they appeared often amongst community jokes and double-entendres… yet so long as something about the liberty cause stirred a bug of sympathy in Rivers's otherwise apathetic soul, these streets (and bars) stayed safe. Rodriguez didn't plan on actually stepping into that musty excuse for a venue, however. Neither the polished, business-casual Baron Abrams nor destitute actors meshed with Brujah blood. _'Just try hauling Red to a musical,' _Nines thought, snerking through grinning teeth.

A grand total of five unanswered voice-messages from LA's resident agitator were blinking on his phone by this hour. He imagined they splintered into straight profanity roundabout the third.

Nines, neither insensate nor an idiot, was aware their self-appointed Den Mother was in love with him. She'd latched on about seven years back in San Francisco when he'd dragged Damsel out of her predecessor's dust pile, another heavy name on a Black Hand bombing list. Magpie had been an alarmingly intelligent woman, stand-up talker and a comfortable personality whom Rodriguez always admired. Goddamn shame to have lost such an old soul to random Sabbat raids. Sirens, rubble, taxi on fire; he'd just met her Childe same night. Kid had been so quiet at that table, so unspoken. She didn't have a clue. So Nines had taken Damsel – hurt, dazed, hysterical – off the gasoline-hot upstate parking lot and straight to another den. Hadn't said a word the whole way in the back of his car, shock and stubbornness. Those glazed eyes read the highway signs: _100 miles_, _60 miles_, _15 miles to Los Angeles_. She'd a shard of mall window glass the size of a dinner plate wedged in one cheek and hate that intensified like wildfire.

Magpie had been Damsel's first hero – saved her, so went the story, from a bludgeoning death under some skinheads' spurs. Unfortunate no wait-and-see wisdom or levelheadedness translated from ancestor to descendant. Kid lived within a perpetual three inches of her latest enemy's face, all clenched fists, riled plumage and hero-awe. Spent damn near every hour trotting after him, too – barking doctrines in her hothead, standoffish way until Skelter'd heard enough and those two ended up at one another's throats. As with most things, Nines took the tensions and the tagalong with long-sighted, tolerant calm. _ "Little girl, little girl,"_ he used to chide her, 'till Damsel plain stopped answering to it about three years ago. Then on out it was all grown-up commands and no need for persuasion. You couldn't afford to be choosey or squeamish. His frontlines needed bodies, not unmaintainable standards. They got a replacement Den Mother out of this mess when their former one – a statuesque, soft-spoken blonde who called herself Houlihan and largely kept away from Rodriguez – disappeared shortly after he took charge. Their last spokesman had been vocal about her wishes to adopt Central LA's Baron title, and equally dubious about a certain rising competitor come drifting in from the Midwest couple decades back. Woman might've bit it, but Nines had a feeling Houlihan ran off because she'd been afraid the new headman would kill her. Funny he'd been worrying exactly the same thing.

Shit, she'd likely deserved it more than him, too... but as it had been in life, popularity, magnetism and promises trumped other qualifications. People had always liked Nines Rodriguez. Most of the time more than they should have. He'd be lying if he claimed not to notice – lying worse if he claimed not to know why.

All that history aside, though, something would've had to be done about Houlihan eventually. Rodriguez hadn't been sure what, and hadn't been looking forward to making that call. He was sure, however, that only stupid alphas let those who didn't like them man their hideouts. Damsel was too green for the position, truth be told; he'd appointed her because she was available, very Brujah, loud-mouthed and loyal. Those were the traits fresh blood needed to kick them around, and one day soon – once they overrode or stopped caring about LaCroix's Embrace mandates – major recruitment would start. Then that half-ripe firecracker would turn into a real asset. These past few years weathering Camarilla pressure had been rough on her, but Red hardly showed it; never tried to renege on what commitments she made. Their Den Mother was becoming harder and semi-competent. Girl stepped up to plate; started bossing people around, talking like everyone's mama lion; learning what her position meant; asserting some unwon pride. Pissed him off sometimes, but that's the way it goes. She was a good kid. Inconvenient. Fucking annoying. More than a little overbearing – couldn't tell her a damn thing without getting screamed at – but a good kid.

Tires crunched a broken bottle of Heineken. He'd pulled into a three-tier parking garage 'round back of Ash's place, flashed his headlights, then powered down and stepped out. Concrete and liquor commingled in the anonymous building. Smelled like sugar and wet asphalt. Dark stories in other districts were favorite places of hitmen - no questions about that - but Rodriguez knew the Camarilla hadn't condescend far enough for public crime. Not yet. They were still scrambling for a "justifiable" reason to exercise force, waiting for blackmail or a slip-up. Baron LA had been stalking these streets too long for undue paranoia or amateur mistakes; furthermore, he felt confident LaCroix's current pack couldn't pin their people for de Luca. Let them suspect all they wanted. With no proof, he'd have an easier time petitioning for Inner Circle sponsorship than an unsanctioned Blood Hunt.

Besides, the Prince wasn't an idiot. Supercilious, egomaniacal, puffed and power-hungry beyond his means… but not at all idiotic. He realized making enemies into martyrs was rarely a worthwhile move, even should his bootlickers scrounge up evidence that was neither charred nor circumstantial. Which they wouldn't. There was little fear in his mind about that.

Their new magistrate attempted once before to have the standing Baron whacked - some sleepy, unimportant night right before LaCroix personally arrived in Los Angeles. Camarilla assessors had preemptively sniffed out any potential speed-bumps to their West Coast goals, and no doubt NINES RODRIGUEZ headed that list in red ink. So, as usual, corporate money signed a hit order; they'd sent some bone-knuckled Nosferatu up I-10 with a machete and satellite photographs. Needless to say, the half-assed undertaking failed. It was Playboy (then relatively untested) who earned rank pips that evening by taking said bloodsucker out with one bullet at thirty-five yards. Kent-Alan Ryan's pretty face and vanity ruined him about as much as your average Toreador, but one couldn't begrudge the fledge his killer aim.

It wasn't a long wait. Never was. LA housed miles of beach, thousands of nighttime wanderers, and enough alcohol to make all of them stupid. Minus political machines, cities were easy living for a self-contained vampire. The clusters of smashed bar-hoppers that went traipsing by every fifteen or so testified to that, marked dinner by their staggers, empty expressions and questionable notions of clothing. Ironed hair, irritating cackles and oversized necklaces – younger than his usual fare, but Nines wasn't in the mood for a fight, and he wasn't picky. They'd do.

Brujah didn't preen or domineer – were not the glib persuaders of Clan Ventrue or Toreador (and thank God for that) – but Rodriguez found early that you didn't usually need to be. He kicked a heel on the side of his car, tilted his head and shot them a smile filthy in its innocuousness. That was usually about all it took. Wasn't hard once you got a few weeks into being undead – once you transitioned past the initial disgust and the painful way your prey flailed during those first inevitable fuck-ups. A grim program took shape over the course of hungry decades. You just faked it, frankly, and in that sense hunting wasn't much different than the shit you did when you were alive.

Mind: animal wits were sharper in these early hours of night, Kine or Kindred, and the group's leader seemed likely to steer them off. One was all it took, though; one double-take and one fuzzy grin. Archetype model: messy hair, glued to a cell phone, tottering on impractical shoes. She could've been attractive had someone wiped the inch of glitter off her eyebrows. Still better than nothing.

"Hey, you didn't see my Bug, did you? I can't… I lost it." The announcement was bold in its drunkenness. Her hip cocked forward in an attempt to be coy. "It's blue," she added. "It's a blue Bug. A Beetle."

Start time, endgame - blink of an eye. Five patchy steps into the truck. Keys jingled. There had been just one moment of intuition, one second-thought, but again: one was all it took. She'd had a hand around the vampire's waist in an ungainly attempt to slide beneath his undershirt and found stainless steel. Fingers recoiled, cold. Her face plunged with sudden sobriety. A shot of doubt blindsided the woman, whose cheerleader name began with a B. "That's a gun? Holy shit," B-Something mouthed, blinking, nascent fear turning the obvious into a question. Her spine, which had until a moment ago been propped against the hood, stiffened. "Why do you have a gun?"

"I'm a cop." Cheap, flimsy lie. But Nines was aware he had a face women wanted to trust. It was a useful feature long before his primary interests had been with their arteries.

Weak excuse, predictable – but she accepted it, because who didn't prefer plainclothes security over terror? "But only when the sun's up, right?" B asked, bursting into laughter because she'd thought this comment was extremely sexy of her.

"That's right." He held open the passenger door.

Nines didn't like to kill kine. Kine had enough problems. But he was aware that sometimes the scavengers did.

Deodorant and unconsciousness were powerful aphrodisiacs to predatory humans; sick Angeleno fucks gnashed their dull teeth harder than a lot of Kindred he knew. An Anarch contended with society's malefactors on a daily basis; a man with a more-than-slightly illicit past entered the supernatural world with plenty of knowledge in this regard. It occurred to him that leaving some half-naked child comatose on garage pavement was about as charitable a move as popping her neck, but gracious vampires generally had graciously short lifespans.

She'd probably wake up all right. The print of his palm on her neck would fade, as would the sharp knock of her head against floorboard before she'd been smothered unconscious. Then the lethargy of blood loss and the memory confusion of what had happened to her, a series of events laden with assumptions in shaky police reports. But clean puncture wounds healed. Bites to the inner elbow or hand didn't usually kill. Still kine didn't shred their veins open trying to twist out of a predator's jaws. It was the fear that lingered. Fear was the slowest evidence to go - and maybe, considering the breadth of what was out here, that wasn't all a bad thing. Kindred maintain their lives by borrowing others. He was far from the nastiest monster that could happen to you in Los Angeles.

Cheeks stinging with an aftertaste like schnapps and caffeine, Rodriguez found a keyring in the purse his victim dropped. He dumped her in the backseat of said blue Bug. He scrubbed off a bloodstain on the collar of his shirt.

Still a lot to do tonight. Nines wiped his mouth, started up the truck, and drove back home.

A streetlight had been shot out in front of _The Last Round_. Preacher Young's fault, Skelter complained. And no, the measly fuck had not stuck around to apologize, thank you for asking. Their most veteran guard swore in his usual too-low, too-sour mumble that he was demanding recompense before leading Rodriguez to a smoky booth inside. Flaking wallpaper, squeaking bar stools, ripped leather upholstery and this was the best they could do for a goddamn safe haven these nights. A fucking dive, no doubt, but there was no Anarch ground in the Angels more well-established than right here. Idle Brujah tempers found solace in dim lighting and time-faded posters. When Nines stepped up and took charge of their old place, the first thing he'd done was tear down a ratty dartboard hanging above the mantle and plaster over nail holes with a heavily-creased portrait of Rochelle. He'd stuck it in a book that got stuck on a shelf and he carried it that way a long time. The Baron liked to tell wild stories about a ringleader with hair-trigger eyes and soft yellow plaits in her hair. He painted his Sire as an everyman's war hero who'd faced Kuei-Jin death threats with a serious mouth and poetic injustice.

In truth, Rochelle had been an artist. Con artist. She hadn't done jack shit for the Cause, and he hadn't thought of her quite that highly, but these people needed a grown-up martyr. And if it could be helped, Rodriguez didn't plan on dying too terrible soon.

Skelter's knuckles rested in their perpetual fists. With every frown, leathery scar tissue twisted over the sharp angles of a militant face. He was glad to have it, or so this old soldier told him once; visible wounds served as a memento of gory battles he'd survived, and reminded younger Anarchs of their own mortality. It was a good lesson. If the fiercest brawler in this den could be hurt – marked by his enemies – then what did you suppose might happen to you? "Sorry to say that streetlight is not even the first layer of shit I've got to deliver to you today," he said, brow furrowing, as Nines perched himself on a table edge. _Bad news coming._ Bad news was no surprise, never mind the efforts downtown's working deputy made at tact. Rodriguez could detect low morale the moment he stepped in; it hung in grim silence, colorless drinking, nicotine smog that bled grayer than usual. A pissed-off Free-State vented, beat its fists, delivered impromptu speeches or plotted revenge... whatever they did to balm their aches, they were loud about it. Quiet nights were telltale signs of failure. Thankfully for the sake of his nerves, though, Damsel was elsewhere.

Skelter remained standing, both arms resolutely crossed over his chest. Skelter always remained standing. Skelter was Nines's best man. Smart, restrained and steadfast – independent enough to make his own decisions, respectful enough to never override his chieftain's. An officer, not a riot kid with a mouth too big for their brain. He was the only trooper worth having when the body-shields began to fail. "You know I hate to bear all the doom and gloom around here, but better I tell you everything upfront. Looks to be LaCroix's bitch patsy might be trying for a postmortem laugh. Oh, before I get into it: Jack says Christie sends her thanks, by the way." Copper glittered angrily at the lieutenant's right ear as well as in both eyes. His left brow had been split decades ago by a Viet Cong carbine that broke the socket. "She wanted to talk to you direct, but I said you had business and would call back some other time. Which was true, anyway, I figure. And if it wasn't, it's about to be. Now, I don't know too much about this yet, but you ought to be aware."

Rodriguez held up a hand. His elbows propped themselves on both dangling knees. "Just say it, Skelter."

"Yeah, I'm getting there. Fucking Cam," he spat, thick with derision. The Gangrel's whites had fire-breathing, startling clarity against darkness. Skelter should have been born Brujah – bled more stoicism and righteous fire than any lesser follower. Hell. Nines felt that sometimes, cutting through these bloody streets with a commander's distance and lies, Skelter made a better Brujah than himself. "Again, I have yet to actually check up on the reports, so you'll have to take anything I tell you about this for what it's worth. And know that we haven't been able to confirm if the move is in response to de Luca or not. That's just my guess."

"Then tell me your guess." He scratched at that one red stain. The younger Anarch sucked in his lower lip.

"Yeah. Look, it's probably not going to amount to anything," he mumbled. That unparticular glower fell short of returning Rodriguez's even blue stare. "But I suspect there's a little reinforcement game going in the ivory tower. To what end, I have no idea. Which is half the reason why I recommend we keep an eye on it. We learned last night that-"

A bellow from upstairs sliced him off. "THERE the fuck you are!" it said, and you need not look up to identify the source. Damsel had crossed _The Last Round_'s entire first floor in short-legged lunges, scowling harder with each footfall. Nines groaned for the interruption and the earful he knew he was about to get.

"Why don't you check your fucking phone sometime?" their Den Mother snapped, vermeil bristling, stout shoulders, anger that could shake off her military hat. There weren't a hell of a lot of vampires strutting around these nights who would've demanded from Nines Rodriguez in such a manner, but Damsel took big exception to the rule, as she did to most. Piss, vinegar and protest moxie packaged into five feet of compact aggression resulted in something that currently resembled a very hostile jumping bean. "Can't stay on top of this shit if no one can get a fucking hold of you. Baron LA. Do I have to come banging your goddamn door down every time I need to find you, or what?"

"Don't have a stroke, Pippi. Can't you see me talking?" Damsel breathed in sharply.

It wasn't so much the condescending nicknames, but the nonchalance that boiled their Den Mother's blood. Red's small notions of importance weren't generally priorities on his much longer list; the ones that were legitimate, she could usually solve on her own. He had bigger fish to fry these nights. And maybe Damsel realized this, because as much as she pushed and hollered her piece, the woman rarely threatened to coup.

"Fuck you, Nines," she fumed. Vulgarities and furious looks were as much of a truce as kid could manage, even on her best day. "I can't believe I put up with you."

This pleased Nines, so he grinned and socked her arm. The contact was hard enough to make her hop and rattle but not enough to hurt. It was a good-sportsmanship gesture; it melted the girl's prickly edges into a slightly more subdued state.

Skelter didn't look likely to check his story so easily. The Baron's second menaced for attention as best he could, shooting Damsel a sub-zero look that had close to no effect. She'd developed an immunity to foul tempers and penetrating glowers some years ago. "I was just telling him about Venture's mail-order bitch," he rumbled, an obvious cue, but one that didn't succeed.

"So you're wasting his time with unverified bullshit. _Pfft_. Not like this is a new story: wipe one tin soldier and the Prince overnights another five. Doesn't mean he's mobilizing and it definitely doesn't mean we have to freak everyone the fuck out about it. Tell me – honestly," she dared. "What's an extra pencil-grinder to us? Who the fuck even cares? Nobody's going to give a shit about lineage or Boards in this city. Explain to me what the hell LaCroix could possibly expect to do with some import brat that he couldn't do with Bitch-Boy de Luca, Childe of the Headless Woman?" A scoff puffed its way through her clenched teeth. Malice lit pea-green eyes with offensive, unhappy doubt. "Barely a fucking upgrade. Torched his shoe-polisher, so he sends in a _house-warmer_. I mean, are you serious with this shit? Don't make me laugh."

"Doughie called a few hours ago," Skelter cut into Damsel's pause. He could see confusion start to darken on their chief's face. "Seems like the Prince flew in backup. And the specifics are suspicious, to say the least. Got a feeling he knows what happened with that bomb - possibly more - and I can read this no other way than setting up his cards. Like I said: it's not clear for what. You can make your guesses same as I made mine. Which is that you should be careful, maybe more so than usual. At least for the next few weeks."

"Please," Damsel ruffed, her style of coping: _I dare you_. Skelter disregarded the bait. His eyes were that soft, fatal kind of concerned.

"Just a feeling," the Gangrel muttered, a man with no optimism left, whose intuition had animal weight. Baron LA had plenty of just-feelings himself over these many years. There was nothing to laugh at or jeer. Skelter didn't care much for commentary or others' opinions; he was his own man, but right after that, he was Nines Rodriguez's. "Hopefully I'm just wrong and paranoid. But if I'm not: I will be prepared for this."

His own man, same old lieutenant: Chester, Vin, Don, Casey, a cap and a gun and a grimmer kind of loyalty. They all swore the same thing, held their honor the same way. Skelter wasn't sentimental enough to actually talk about it but he didn't have to be. They all got that look. They all said it. _ I know my price._ I can make that sacrifice. _"Take a bullet for you any day, boss"_ in the days kids were taking bullets for him every day.

_I'll do what I have to. _It was his promise, too; it was the only thing you could.

So it was with a grim, somber kind of gratitude Nines would answer, quiet voice, more important man: "I know you will."

Good soldiers – same short lives. Skelter's nod was short and he did not lift his cheerless, serious stare. "It isn't all rumor, though. This doesn't line up right with what we've seen from him in the past; if it does, it's too ancient history for me to know about it. Replacements are one thing. Wiring in a tool from halfway across the goddamn world is different. Shit, he scrounged his last man out of a late-night execution; now this? Son-of-a-bitch is thinking something. I wish we had intel on her years ago, since _then_ it might've been useful… but-"

"What a great big fucking joke. Don't even worry about it, Nines. Eurotrash ass is out of the loop; she'll be cooked in a goddamn day. The Ventrue aren't going to bite on this one. And if for some stupid reason they do: we can take care of personal whores just like we did poster child. That's how we handle business in LA, and if they can't get with the fucking game-plan, then they're going to keep losing peop-"

Rodriguez, now irritated in earnest, frowned. "What the hell are we talking about?"

The Anarchs stilled.

Damsel rounded the bar and produced from a storage locker one sloppy portfolio of information. Inside: printed documents, listed travel dates, disposable photographs, and a solitary passport scan. Skelter's rifleman reach had foreseen them all.

"Bluebloods, man," he said - a _bad feeling_ sound.

Nines Rodriguez flipped open a folder and read the name beneath the wan, clerical, unkind face. **  
**


	5. Love of the Rack

**Love of the Rack **

_A man in black with a Meinkampf look.  
- Plath_

* * *

Serena Woeburne hard-set her chin, shouldered a portfolio case, and stepped through the federal-black double-doors of Venture Tower.

"Dear girl – you are here!" The decadent receptionist all but cried it out, crimson-suited and melodramatic, shuffling around her marbled desk on ridiculous Kleins to seize Ms. Woeburne's cold hands. A perfect chignon gleaned under ceiling lights as she pressed all ten fingers insistently into her own. Her manicure left dents upon the Ventrue's plain, clean knuckles. "Bonsoir! Bonsoir, amie. Welcome," she cooed. "You have finally made it! How was your flight?"

Serena absorbed a hennish kiss on either cheek. Thin lips revealed discomfort, but Sebastian's Childe did her best to be diplomatic towards a Prince's heel-kissers. This scarlet sniveler – with her decorous nature, caricature Frenchness and thick, flirtatious eyelashes – was a prime example of Kindred sycophant. "Nice to see you, Joelle," she told the glossy young Toreador, weary voice manufacturing a little warmth. "It was all right. I am glad to be on the ground again, though. Shall we head up straightaway?"

Her so-called friend smiled, flawless concern across a flawless face. This particular creature had worked for Sebastian several decades – a recruit from some forgotten visit to Marseille – and had been absolutely insufferable to Ms. Woeburne until realizing the dour neonate was her employer's own blood. From then on out, theirs had been a relationship built off backhanded compliments and smacking kisses. Jealousy allowed nothing beyond threadbare civility. Fake, sensational, toy doll mademoiselle – eyes like a hawk's, smile like cellophane. She was an exaggerated stereotype shimmying around this otherwise serious building, a façade of harmlessness to temper the absolute witch beneath. Serena did not appreciate being ten years junior such a damn poodle. She assured herself that smart agents would always outshine decor in Mr. LaCroix's regard, but something about Joelle Lefevre – about those fishnet legs, small responsibilities, and preoccupation with material glamour – pissed Woeburne off beyond all reasonable logic.

The Toreador being drop-dead gorgeous did not help her case.

"Yes, of course. Whatever you'd like, dear. After you," she exclaimed, beckoning forward. "Such work ethic. But you've been on your feet for days; you must be exhausted. Please?" Stylish, frigid hands moved to take the traveler's bag, but its owner refused. Serena tried to ignore the LaCroix-money string of pearls looped around that elegant, rosewater neck. '_Bitch_.'

They clattered up one dramatic flight of stairs, into an elevator, then down the sterile white-walled hallway towards Sebastian's penthouse. Joelle was still prattling away, as was befitting her feminine style of groveling.

"I am so sorry, my dear friend. I would have paid for your taxi, you know, but – ah, silly me! I did not recognize you from the security cameras. Something is different, yes?" A cold, self-serving shark's gaze flicked sidelong. Serena wished she'd worn a hat. Or a paper sack. "Oh! But of course, Ms. Woeburne," the woman said, scrutiny grinning through her counterfeit relief. "You have changed your hairstyle!"

"I'm afraid so," was her calmest reply. The last occasion she'd seen either Joelle or Sebastian had been in London, during her Sire's semi-annual United Kingdom business venture. She'd sported two feet of thick, listless brunette back then. It was early wintertime, and Serena remembered the silent fury of discovering her Sire brought this prancing terrier along to keep his books. _Joelle Lefevre_ - she had dropped all her red things right upon the lobby carpet as though someone might take them away. Then the outlandish flamingo went clacking off through their house as though Mr. LaCroix's estate was a home, leaving him there at the door, shaking rainwater off his trench coat with tangent irritation on a fair face. Ms. Woeburne had been too jarred to follow-through with formality. She stood beside him, smelling of storm weather and a Toreador hug. Lefevre's puce gloves had made her heavy mane damp where they clasped. It now grazed one-fourth the original length, ridges bouncing neatly towards chin. "But function never hurt anyone once in a blue moon."

"Not at all, chérie. It looks very fine." Ms. Woeburne could tell by that glitter in her smile that the condescending tart was lying.

"Well," was all she said in return. Fists tightened around her shoulder strap, heels panging. _'Miserable, nasty, toffee-nosed Pucci bitch.'_

Joelle spun into a catwalk half-turn at the ominous gilt door. "And here we are!" she announced, smile amiable. An unimpressed Serena pushed wiry glasses up the straight bridge of her nose before heading in. "I'll leave you to it with that, dear. But before I go back downstairs, I must first say that it is so lovely to be working together again. And in California, of all places – such a surprise to have you here. Oh!" A malicious, cordial little wink at the back of Ms. Woeburne's somber business jacket. "And please, do head right in; don't worry a mite. I am _sure_ Monsieur LaCroix is expecting you. I called four times today to remind him. But do not keep him long, yes? He is very, very busy."

The aside _roasted_ Serena to her gut. She didn't even bother shooting a scathing look after Lefevre's ruby silhouette, but rapped thrice upon the ornate wood, gripped its bronzed knob, and pushed her way boldly in.

Sebastian did not rise from his desk at first. The man had been preoccupied with a sheaf of reports and by the office phone pressed to an ear. There was a scowl on his face; deep-set eyes did not lift. They were sunless ocean water. He halted Ms. Woeburne by raising two firm, pale digits.

"Maximillian, I have a business call," Prince Los Angeles said without looking up, chagrin edging into the crisp and coolly familiar voice. Patience (hers, anyway) was a regular demand of their relationship. Serena did not take offense; she sat rigidly, primly, in a visitor's chair and watched the militant blue 'M' of her Sire's lips stiffen. "We'll need to cut this short for now. Of course I do. Expect more from us on the matter shortly; my people will be sending along in triplicate whatever information we've gathered. And, before that point, let me offer you a note of personal assurance: the guilty party will be spared no punishment. Do not mistake my adherence to protocol as a slack response. I take security seriously, and the Camarilla will make it clear that we do not humor terrorism." There was a tense, hairline pause. LaCroix's mouth pressed one indignant muscle tighter. "All this is understood. As I've heard. Yes. Goodbye."

Ms. Woeburne rose from her chair at the receiver's click, stepping obediently into Sebastian's handgrip. He gave an irritable puff in regards to whatever conversation she'd interrupted, but managed a patriarchal smile for his fledgling anyway, encompassing both her palms. It was a firm, bracing clasp. His touch was friendly, but even in welcome, still felt bitter and cold. "Serena. Thank you for responding so quickly to my summons," their Prince said, his rare presence and rarer appreciation gratifying her. The Foreman's return grin was troubled, to be sure, but entirely sincere. Mr. LaCroix - famously impatient, especially for his age - saw no need for excessive greetings; he had seen her before, and would again. Yet there was no more recherché or precious sentiment than affection from a monarch of a Sire, calculated though it may have been. "I cannot tell you how glad it makes me to have you in this office. All your living arrangements are suitable, I trust?"

"Of course, Mr. LaCroix. Joelle was very helpful."

"No doubt. I suppose she is useful enough. Inadequate for our other purposes, however," he said, which gave the passive-aggressive Ms. Woeburne no small dose of wicked pleasure. At least her prudent Sire recognized what a foolish pigeon that woman was. She withdrew from Sebastian's grasp and again seated herself at his bidding. They were staunchly, formulaically polite. "No," Prince continued as he sat back into the thronelike chair behind an altar of a desk. Neat praise strengthened his argument. "For this particular task – this particular time in our expansion – I need you. I need your diligent services, your discretion, and most importantly… I need you _here_. This won't be an issue, I trust."

"Not at all. I've made the necessary preparations to stay as long as you require. Mr. Roderick is set at Hendon for several months or more; by all means, I-"

"You've cut off your hair," Prince LaCroix observed, suddenly, the slope of Sebastian's brows hinting disappointment. Serena touched her scalp defensively.

"Yes. Yes, I- I did." She smoothed any mutineers behind her ears. "It's in fashion to keep it short."

"Shame," he said – a simple, small sigh that ripped the woman helpless. Ms. Woeburne floundered for a few seconds, worthiness crumbling, insides quailing. The flicker of Sebastian's fireplace felt bizarrely like ice.

And so Serena was extraordinarily relieved when the Prince spoke again, dissolving that horrible sensation of dangling on a fisherman's hook. He discarded any other minor disenchantments about his Childe. "Well. Prior to proper planning on our behalf, I should elucidate you on recent happenings. You received the bulletin on Mr. de Luca's death, yes?"

"That I did, sir. I was very sorry to hear it."

Sebastian nodded, long fingers folding beneath his chin, elbows propped upon enameled wood. "A dreadful turn," he declared, dissatisfaction authentic. Anger commingled in those polar eyes; their color was wealthy, a regal pigment that glimmered above the manipulative, aristocratic ambitions of Camarilla Manifest Destiny. "Believe me, Serena: had I my way, there would be at least three Blood Hunts in circulation. We clearly lack the evidence to make such a motion. I have always been a practical leader; I won't have anyone making limp claims I am a belligerent who does not respect our laws. But all the same, we shan't let those responsible go without punishment on a bad precedent."

"And – this goes without saying, I hope – I will happily help you in that." Ms. Woeburne didn't miss the opportunity to reaffirm her loyalties. It was not apple-polishing to voice truth and own it. This was simply good timing advantaged by good servants. "I mean: I realize I'm hardly police. But if there's to be a tribunal, war or otherwise, you can count on my service. Whatever that might entail."

LaCroix did not comment on her miniature vow. His shoulder-blades pressed back casually, discontentedly, into black leather. He swept his hand in a decisive, dismissive _no_. "It is not a question of war in Los Angeles. It is more a matter of…" One thoughtful pause. "Risk control."

She may not have read the fine print of this Domain as of yet; the Childe was clever enough to catch his hostile implications. Her attention narrowed to dubious green slits. Both her feet were grounded sturdily on the floor. "_Risk_ control, sir?"

A meaningful glance. That brief flash said more than his heavy-handed semantics did. "Precisely."

"Are you certain I'm the best candidate?" Ms. Woeburne frowned with index finger pressed along her jaw. Her brows dented into concern that was genuine and resolute in its attempts to appear strong, bleak, masculine. But insecurities moiled steadily away within. This expectation had not been mentioned in her very concise briefing; furthermore, Serena's short history of trivial hospitality, clerical work and property-holding included no aggressive negotiating. She remained cautious. It was not a bad trait to encourage in young Ventrue. Her lamentable gender shone through that glum face. "Don't mistake me. I'm willing to do whatever you need. But my experiences with court proceedings aren't what they could be."

"Discredit yourself if you will, Miss Woeburne," the Prince dismissed, a nonplussed remark. She shifted in her uncomfortable cushioned chair. "But don't doubt my hiring choices. Your name didn't apparate in my mind. Much consideration went into this decision – perhaps more than was due – but all the same, you're the finest choice I have. This isn't formal overtures or ambassadorial work I am proposing, do you understand?" he asked; it was a forthright, offhand question equipped with one blunt crease in his brow. His fingertips rapped the gleaming desk twice. "What troubles Los Angeles these nights isn't quite that philosophical and I daresay it doesn't have much place in council forums. It really comes down to a crisis of organization. You are extremely organized. Furthermore, you are subtle, and you are quiet. And you are mine. You keep on top of things. You are exactly what we need."

"I'm... humbled," she admitted – not exactly the correct word for this odd commendation and odder proposal, though an acceptable one. "But I'm sorry; I'm still not clear on what you're asking, and I'm guessing that means I haven't been trained for it. I don't want to be difficult. But thinking of the collateral-"

"Sometimes collateral is necessary to accomplish what you must." His glimpse was unpadded and frank. "I have decisive faith in you, Serena. You can manage."

Vague suggestions obviously unsettled the ground beneath his Childe's feet. Nevertheless, professional talk solidified her somewhat. Words like _organization_ and _forum_ were familiar friends; they cast this precipitous new city in a format Serena recognized. She tried to uphold that stern, adept aura – to appear as though his blunt compliments had not affected her. The effort sunk. "Well." A thumb pushed her frames closer to the woman's lashes. "I suppose if it's _management_ you're asking for…"

"In a sense." Sebastian's look hardened – distant, dictator-like. "I have tolerated many transgressions from that Anarch dive, but I will not abide murder in my domain. You know most of the details already. Thus you also know this must be brought, cleanly as possible, to an end. And so…" He glanced up with the assurances of a well-furnished plan. "I have asked for you."

"And I've come," she promised – quietly, diligently, as much a corporal as could be forged in a dark corporate suit.

"Indeed," he said. "You have."

The Prince rose suddenly, one motion directing him up and before that menacing window. Ms. Woeburne did not. From where she sat, a status subordinate, the Childe saw both hands clasp loosely behind her predecessor's back. It was a minuteman's stature: chin erect, shoulders square, regency stark beneath the purple maw of sky.

"Tell me, Serena." His English was casual, precise, perilously coy. "What would you say running a bit of interference for me?"

'_A lot of good this blood did me,' _Ms. Woeburne thought, and stood, and she shook her Sire's hand.


	6. Internal Planning

**Internal Planning**

Ms. Woeburne jostled her way into the empty conference room with cellular phone pressed between shoulder and ear.

"Calm down and listen to me, Roderick," Serena scolded. She pulled shut and locked the door. "Can you do that? I don't understand the problem; we went over this line-by-line three nights ago. I left very specific instructions with Shauna. If you need someone to hold your hand, find hers."

Los Angeles plunged in every direction through these walls of spotless window glass. It was a typically busy evening downtown. The city night spread out into darkness and a beehive of streetlights far below. There was a nimbus of constant motion and sound – horns, shouts, milling cars, pedestrians scattered like ants in a network of tunnels – all muted by Venture Tower's menacing heights. Chaos did not reach to these tall floors. He would not allow it. In the spirit of smooth business, Mr. LaCroix's West Coast headquarters were quiet, moneyed and cool; the air tasted of ventilation, the walls were proofed against noise. Up here, she was alone. Inside this vacant chamber, there was only silence… silence and nubby grey carpet. Not a pencil shaving or espresso spill had ever hit it. Her hands and calves looked startlingly white beneath the sanitary glow of overheads. The vacuumed office chairs were tucked neatly around clean, black wood.

Ms. Woeburne sat in one of them – dropped files and folders in a smack upon the varnished table. Because no one was here to shoot disapproving looks, the Ventrue wheeled backwards, threw a pen onto the surface and allowed herself to slump.

"I'm sorry to have to rush off and leave you holding the bag – really I am. But that's why they call them orders and not suggestions." She leant back in her chair, legs flung forward, one palm pressed open on the enamel. A heel slipped out of its pump. She pushed the shoe forward with one toe, muscles cramping along both arches, glad to have stopped for a moment... even if it was only until someone finished printing her dossiers. They had certainly dealt enough work in the meantime, however. Some sullen ghoul boy nearly collided with her five steps outside Sebastian's penthouse, nodded wordlessly, and handed over this foot-thick primer. "Essential data," it claimed. She scoffed.

Funny this was Mr. LaCroix's idea of essential data when he threw fits over memos that exceeded fifteen bullet-points.

"You're going to have deal with estate affairs. They're not that complex. Anyway, don't you think it's about time you puzzle out how to run things on your own? – if you're planning on making something of yourself in our organization. It's not as though this is going to be forever. I'm coming back. The only change to our plans is that I can't tell you exactly when that will be." A comforting line for them both, Ms. Woeburne supposed, one with no reason not to believe. It was more support than Sebastian had offered tonight, at least.

Serena had no real personal attachment to Roderick Dunn. She could not tell you his middle name or eye color; had never asked if he'd any siblings or a mother with incomplete love; did not know what this bony, fast-talking, red-haired Associate thought of his fifth year at Hendon. But LaCroix's unforgiving protégé _wa_s sure that, as the young man's direct superior, she did not relish the thought of returning to an estate up-in-arms. Managing her Sire's property was a high-intensity but low-risk job; it was a position well out of public eye, and one that could, admittedly, be filled by any half-competent neonate. Filling it via telecommute was a less likely thing. More than that, standing here on American soil, she did not want to add the mundane business of bookkeeping to a rapidly growing worry list.

Unlike door-answering and diplomat placation, processing their Prince's classified files was not exactly a responsibility one passed on. Her workaholism was of the pessimistic variety; Ms. Woeburne just _assumed_ she'd be juggling sensitive expense records, too. But when the alternative was failing, who'd buck at being overworked?

She had no conscious recollection of how blunt front teeth were making mincemeat of her bottom lip. The taste of flesh was only an afterthought when, later that night, Serena would glance into a lonely mirror of a lonely apartment bathroom. The reflection that looked back was pale, merciless, staid and somehow half-hollow. Her eyes always glinted stark in their dark circles, a predatory, viper shade of uncaring. She must have been somewhere in there. Somewhere, surely. "Roderick, why are we assessing expenditures? I don't even want you to think about finances. Ms. Maldano has the critical figures and she'll handle them. All you have to do is track messages and takes notes from any visitors for Mr. LaCroix. Make sure the house is in order and nothing explodes. That's it. You are an answering machine with a face. If you can do that, you can prop things up at Hendon until I get back. Whenever that is."

Great confidence, considering _she_ would probably soak a good amount of blame if anyone back home cocked up their job. Unfair, yes; uncompromising, most definitely yes; but no one ever said being a Ventrue meant no more stress sickness. This Foreman understood the burden of inheritance better than most. When Ms. Woeburne first entered Sebastian LaCroix's employ, now many years ago, she had all but train-wrecked; been beset by constant anxiety. There was the rush that never stopped, a dozen china balls in the air, the head-pounding feeling that one shatter would kill. It was enough to feel insane. Her wrists began shaking the second day; she had not regained control of them for week.

Decades passed, and sometimes there were moments in which the woman still felt them itch, restless, threatening to tremble. She'd flatten ten fingers down on a nice, solid surface, or fold both hands tightly behind her back.

It was a sensible effort, a reasonable difficulty. Even dead bodies could only hold so much tension before they began to splinter and fray.

"What do you want me to do about it? I don't even understand what you're asking or why you're calling. Because you must realize I can't manage you from here," the Ventrue reminded, coolness that smothered a beat of empathy. There was no use in feeling badly about it. After all, she had survived her own domestic harrowing without a mothering prefect scratching _check-plus_ on every decision – and there was not a single motherly fiber in Ms. Woeburne's body. If Dunn couldn't do the same, then perhaps the only appropriate answer was "natural selection." A bitter sentiment for someone who had been a stumbling fledgling not-so-long-ago, and undoubtedly one inherited from her own Sire. Still, there it was: if you cannot keep up, step aside. Too many steps, and you will fall off the earth. This is how a power clan operates. "I can't fix every blip in your calendar and you can't ring me up every time something doesn't go exactly as planned. It's your responsibility. Accept that. Embrace it. And if you muck something up, that is what I'll tell Mr. LaCroix. I'm not taking any pleasure in this, but understand where you are. Are we clear, here?"

She groaned at the boy's deluge of pleases and panic. What Serena felt was not quite guilt; it was more so a mix of pressure and coldness, seasoned with the pity of _you've been there before_. Molars clenched. A coffee lock tickled maddeningly against the nearest lobe. Her eye pencil was beginning to bleed.

"Now don't pin all this on me," the operative argued, a useless defense. "It wasn't my brilliant notion to up and scrape you all into the frying pit. And look, I'm sure you'll do fine. Passably, at least, and that is really all I need from you. You aren't expected to shine or improvise or throw together the social event of the season; just adhere to the directions left for you. Can't you still read? Don't beg, for God's sake, Roderick," she warned, temper sparking, but of course – he did. This was getting agonizing. An irritable puff threatened to turn into a growl.

Unprepared to soothe an overseas conniption, the Ventrue tried to be gentle: "You're getting this all wrong, you know. I'm not testing you. No, I _know_ what it looks like. But I also know how things tend to unfold. If we start this dance of 'seeking my opinion' at every step, I'll end up making all your decisions for you, and frankly: I don't have that kind of schedule. I don't have the leverage to be your crutch. I have my own business; I can't attend to yours, too. I don't even know what I'm _doing_ here," Ms. Woeburne snapped. Apprehension lanced into her lecture –a selfish, juvenile emotion – burning others because the clockwork Childe was suddenly not one-hundred-percent sure how to conduct herself. "You have a detailed set of instructions. Follow them."

A hank of her short hair – _shame_ – snagged itself on one troublesome blazer clasp, and she spent a frustrated minute unsnarling it.

"Fine. Fine. Just. Read me the message," Serena finally heaved, her long sigh reproachful and haggard. A finger and thumb drilled into eyebrow and cheekbone respectively. Small defeats sometimes must be weathered for the general good. More than that, she simply did not have the energy to fight about it any longer. "But this is the one and only time, all right?"

The agent listened blandly as Roderick shuffled notes, uncapped a pen, and began to dictate a request some London Harpy's assistant left two hours after Ms. Woeburne departed Gatwick. She did not gasp or console him. She did not speak or offer any confirming _hmn_s. Not this evening. There was a headache coming on.

Deciding she may as well get a jumpstart on all this catch-up material, the Ventrue pulled off her glasses, flung them upside-down across a SWOT brief, then swiped for nearby folders. No time like the present, and all that. Between waiting on more paperwork, definitive briefings, company meetings, a rental car and keys to her new apartment, genuine rest was rare. Living this life, you learned to plan in the interim. Serena could not _remember_ a time where she just sat.

_Opportunities, alliances, advantages, benchmarks, development capital_. Because she is a Ventrue – and her prioritizing has a deadly edge to it – Ms. Woeburne set context aside and immediately flipped for the tab labeled THREATS.

"Yes, of course I'm _listening_," Serena hissed, nose crinkling, a definitive sign of her telling a lie. It was not as though the woman meant to be sharp, or that she did not understand his predicament; there was simply so much else to sort out. Her hands were full of printed pages, damage assessments and proceeding transcripts. Square nails flicked rapidly through fact sheets; the critical green of her stare issued each a second's more attention than Woeburne's ears paid Roderick Dunn. She had barely breached the portfolios when outrage clipped her to a quick.

"Wait. Hold on a moment. _What_ did she say about security fees…?" There it was: precisely where she knew it'd be, precisely what she'd been trying so stubbornly to avoid. The swarm descended. A thousand urges to intervene, a powerful kick to take charge, to organize messes – the hallmarks of Ventrue ambition. Hers was limited to a humble ceiling, but it thrived there, buzzing and contracting within the confines Sebastian LaCroix had set. His Childe's spine racked straight in the mildly comfortable Tower chair. A sheaf of reports thumped back to the table, pages upset, Kuei-Jin gang symbols and Hollywood expenditures sliding apart across dark enamel. There was nothing friendly about the way she laughed. "Hah! Hah-hah! Is it! Oh, that's precious. That's not about to happen. And what did you say?"

Had she not sixteen other things on her mind, a stack of trivial politics, Ms. Woeburne might have noticed how the Red List split where she stopped at _Chinatown_; she might've come to think it odd how, not knowing why Sebastian brought her to LA, THREATS fell open to a satellite photograph of Nines Rodriguez.

"They're playing games with you, Roderick, and it's that simple. No coincidences. The best thing to do is calmly stand your ground. Trust me that they can't touch you where you are. You're in your master's Elysium. You're not in the jungle. Show fear, and the bullying is only going to get worse," Serena said – and all things considered, this abrupt, insensitive pep-talk was a fitting summary for the monsters' ball of Los Angeles. Her feet slid neatly back into colorless black shoes. "Listen: here are your new instructions. You're going to wait for her to contact you again. You're going to explain to her in your most pleasant voice that Mr. LaCroix will attend to this matter the moment his schedule permits. And then you are free to ignore it."

Sound advice – bold advice – but, as it always was with philosophy and personal mottos, the telling was easier than the doing.

She was just about to pick the next page out of her folder when a rap hit the door.

"Ms. Woeburne," Joelle called through polished oak; that teasing voice was insultingly chipper and swooped every vowel. Carmine fabric hollered its presence through three inches of viewing glass, vivid and outlandish. Serena suspected the strawberry poof probably wasn't even French. "Everything is ready for you now! Come downstairs to the lobby and pick up your things when you like. I will hold it all at the desk."

And just like that – within the space of a simper and knock – every stitch of her impatience was back.

"Do what you see fit," she told Roderick strictly, then hung up the cellular phone.

With much to do and little reason to stay, Ms. Woeburne stood, rolled her neck, gathered the few sparse belongings she carried and left. There was stillness again in the barren core of Venture Tower. The papers marked THREATS cut back together and disappeared with a sharp, disciplinarian snap. Two instants, and prickly vampire, nervous telephone call, heavy reports – they had all moved on.

The tension and the question remained.

Serena Woeburne was a very sharp tack, but this was a new predicament. A prideful child of duty, she gave her nod-and-frown, part reflex and part inability to admit when the water was too deep. The truth, however, was that this steadfast corporal still felt unclear of what Prince LaCroix demanded of her here in California. Vague project goals, promotion hints and policy-building are points of intrigue, but they are not sufficient to fulfill a purpose. And before any business begins, it should be noted: the Ventrue are creatures of amazing potential, quick and vicious in their pursuit, yet even the fastest greyhound must first know exactly what she is expected to run down.

Serena Woeburne came to Los Angeles without knowing what her Sire had planned for this venture or this city. But she'd find out much sooner than she liked.


	7. Centrifuge

**Centrifuge**

If you know the Anarch movement, and you know its current difficulties, you should know this about Nines Rodriguez: he is always sort of half-expecting to die.

The Camarilla has tried a lot of outlandish things in the past. They've murdered headmen before, framed them, ousted their own rightful Princes without hesitation or cringes over all the blood spilt. These efforts don't always succeed, and that there even _is_ a Baron downtown testifies to that. But the Free-State's fall, as a concept and as a structure, teaches smart men and women who have been called leaders important lessons about survival. If you want to exist near conquerors, an inconvenient voice has two choices. You can either make yourself so small, so similar, that the hawks cannot recognize you... or you puff up in size and reputation until they wouldn't dare land for fear of having their feathers ripped out.

Nines Rodriguez has a good head on his shoulders - his forerunners always told him so - but Brujah have never been real great at being small.

And it's past time for hiding in Los Angeles these nights. The Camarilla shows their ignorance at the same time they show their knives. Some suits with clipboards and microphones in their ears have written new leases, claimed Domain, taken his titles away without understanding that Anarch shepherds don't require official names to be what they are. This chief has never demanded anyone call him Baron, but he's a Baron nonetheless. And that isn't about to change because Sebastian LaCroix and a council of shriveling Primogen signed on the dotted line.

Nines Rodriguez will step down to stop running LA when they hang his head over Venture Tower's door. The Prince and his pets are beginning to realize that, say these latest reports - this influx of agents, resources and searches for diplomatic loopholes wide enough to fit a gun through. They're beginning to sharpen their pikes, quietly, behind shut boardroom doors. _Let 'em_ has always been his public philosophy, because shields of bravery were stronger than a bleeding city's real armor. Maybe more traction sticks in that pitbull of a statement than he's thought, too - _let 'em_ - and anyway, there's certainly no keeping them from it. You can only wait for war. But until then, he digs in, and he expects the spearhead to come.

This isn't exactly what he pictured that spear to look like, though.

LA's last State spokesman had been driving Interstate 10 quite complacently before it happened. There were stars in his rearview, smooth asphalt beneath full tires, flatbed full of ammunition, something that sounded like Hendrix fizzling through radio speakers. There was warmth in his veins and a long line of successful checkmarks shortening this evening's chore list. Ocean breeze made West Coast winter mild. Engines hummed quietly; a sickle moon was faint and yellow beyond The Angels' halo of smog. Even Rodriguez's phone remained beautifully silent. It was that kind of calm, easygoing evening; downtown's mélange of traffic pushed steadily along, unflustered, beneath the great blackness where sky met street.

Or it would be for another fifteen minutes, at least.

The Baron had become a practical and aporetic thinker, but tranquil nights helped to put some things in perspective. When this city wasn't screaming high-pitched murder, California could be all right. Windows rolled to half-set, sea foam in his lungs, wind-rustled palm trees and a man could almost forget the Midwest_. _Something indefinable about this visceral place spelled love. The coast had not been built on mud or dust, but layer upon layer of sand tossed over Gold Rush possibility that never crumbled. It was all conifers here – honest-to-God Pacific. For the space of a midnight stretch of road, one could shelve Chicago, St. Louis, Detroit, Cleveland, Indianapolis, Cincinnati – miles lost to Camarilla legionnaires, Sabbat bombs, Kuei-Jin shock troops… any number of worser monsters.

And there were always worser monsters. Nobility was nonexistent fare from Kindred, whatever their association – Rodriguez knew better than most – as he knew that his place within their changing world was not permanent. The Anarchs' figurehead might have been five steps from misanthrope, but he was alive. Make no mistake, however: selfish as any one vampire might be, you could always find another beast shrewder, meaner, sicker. They had learned that lesson in ancient history, if you put stock in the legends (no matter which side). He had learned it early in his life: poverty, Depression, killing and the greed that perpetuates them all. It barely mattered where the hard truth sunk in – only that it did, and preferably, did before you died.

Which was rarely the case for young Brujah. His people were destructive, physical, fast-burning wicks. But despite unclean motives and the contempt for lessers that always comes with control, Nines found he still had some sympathy for them. Maybe it was his perspective on this vicious wheel; maybe it was residual emotion leftover from a time when he'd been a hateful little spoke on the liberty machine, himself. Probably didn't amount to much either way. The Free-State was largely screwed, both politically and in the moral codes it swore to uphold. Nice, though – that last tug, faint at the end of things, to let a walking martyr sometimes think he might still care.

But so long as followers need leaders and leaders need followers, he will be here. For better or worse, because he was all they had left at the end of a violent age.

The clan had been made of Wise Men once – sovereign warriors with intellect and clear purpose – though that dusty, untouchable fable never resonated much within Rodriguez. Yet its lasting motto did: do not grow comfortable. Act confident, speak loudly, boast fearlessness... but however mighty and fierce your legend swells, do not make the mistake, child, of believing your lie. You are not the biggest king that ever sat upon this hill. There is always someone marching forward, gaining ground, closing the distance. That their chief had come to this grim realization was the only reason half downtown still called itself Free-State. All power is transitory. One day, that far-off shadow will be at your throat – and if you do not deign to fight, then it will throw you down.

His little hill was looking very dark these nights; Los Angeles stood like an island forgotten at sea, storm churning, surrounded by desert and primeval sharks.

Nines glanced at the digital clock, flinty moonlight striking the steel of his bracers. _11:40 PM_. There was only a little left to do tonight. He'd just come from an overdue appointment with Abrams; he'd left with a monthly 'donation' to the revolution loaded in a false-name bank account and promises of more revenue ahead. That was how business in Hollywood generally went these days. Isaac was Anarch in alignment, and could talk pretty big game about keeping his district Cam-free... but everyone knew he'd collapse when pressed. Matter of time. Rodriguez would've stayed later to hash out details - see what extra aid he could twist from his office-bound neighbor Baron - were it not for the knock of another opportunity. An accomplice from San Fran had buzzed; _ASAP_, the message read; _check drop-cache_.

Nines had been waiting a while now for insider intel. Little over two months, to be exact. Two months of silence from a kid sent to snoop was plenty long enough to presume your spy croaked. Two months of silence, then suddenly - sitting angrily in that damn jewelry shop, listening to excuses and placations - a bite on his line. Suspicion commingled with hope. There had been few details attached, but that was hardly surprising considering the current atmosphere. And with LaCroix mobilizing a new ad-hoc international task force, the local Baron was eager to receive whatever information his outside moles dug up.

He'd had to check it out. In hindsight, smart thing to do would've been sending a proxy, but Rodriguez didn't trust enough people to divert them from home. Besides, things had been running smoothly. Twenty-four days since de Luca died, only one Nocturne conference, and no one had shot at him yet.

Discounting that wayward shovelhead outside Compton, but you know, you couldn't win them all.

Waters were always tense in Angeltown. It should all have been quiet between the veneer of Hollywood and the sinister silhouettes of downtown, though; they were bad friends (almost opposite-of), but decent allies. Decent allies and quiet nights were rarities you could not afford to take for granted when a Brujah reached his age. Usually it was all war drums, warnings and mindless rallies. A moment alone to think was welcome. Five more minutes and he'd reach his destination – maybe have short-term plans again, temporary though they might be. This drop had always been a deadzone. No wondering why: an unused apartment mailbox was discreet enough for their purposes, particularly when wedged in a shitty ghetto, double-particularly when that ghetto was thick Free-State turf. _Sunnyside Condos_, Anarch exchange... it was like a shitty joke. One day, Nines realized, the Ventrue were bound to figure out their high-security deliveries drew moths to flame – and on that day, he would worry – but for now, basic locks and anonymity were the best places to hide from black ties.

So, anxieties loosened a notch and senses full of fresh air, this old soldier let himself feel a little less ready to die.

Imagine his mood, then: when a dreary gray car hopped the next lane and exploded into the door.

"SHI-" was about all the Brujah could get out before his front tire connected with three feet of concrete median, and everything took a mad lurch sideways.

Nines Rodriguez always half-expected that bullet was coming, and a man showboating for death should've known by now that quiet nights precursed the shot in your back. It was how politics – all of them – worked. It was an obvious state of the city. These days – these streets – _this_ was the kind of night he had.

A man who does or doesn't call himself a Baron should have known it wasn't enough to wait. A man with the history he had should have known it wasn't enough to assume you could fight or talk your way out of assassination attempts weak enough to let you outlive them. A leader _must_ know that he has to run at all times. Because even though their masters debate nuances and worship subtlety, even though they fail miserably as often as they succeed, you always had to expect there was a Camarilla bitch aiming to kill you at any given time.

Ms. Woeburne did not scream when the right side of her underpriced, over-polished, ugly rental Volvo gave a predictable and distinctive _bang_.

Because that's exactly what it sounded like. Not theatrical, not overpowering, maybe even understated for such a brazen move at such high speed:_ bang._

The truck went reeling._  
_

Serena strangled her steering wheel, shoulders dug deep into polyester, eyelids peeled back into sockets. The ricochet pried her fender away from what it struck, wheels squealing wildly as they tore for control, axles teetering precariously fast down this stretch of wide-open road. But she did not scream. You could hardly scream when you could not think, when your throat and brain were clogged, when a Ventrue is benumbed by delayed recognition of what she'd just set into motion. Everything below both elbows had gone to adrenaline ice. To counter the cowardice – or, perhaps, as nothing more than a dumb reflex action – Serena had actually shut her eyes when the pickup lunged, spun into another lane (where it was hit by two more cars), then flipped underside-up to disappeared over a divider, showering sparks and screeching the awful screech of bending metal.

Of course she did not scream. She was too afraid for that. But just in case you tend to doubt a voiceless Foreman, for your consideration: one tire came about twelve inches from bursting glass out of her passenger window.

Spare her the lecture; Ms. Woeburne hadn't stepped through Venture Tower's staff exit tonight intending to pull a small counterrevolution or ridiculous stunts. Then again, she hadn't expected running headlong into interference at a six-point intersection midway to the supposedly uncompromised business waiting tonight - particularly not interference Level Red. Bad wordplay and a slight exaggeration, perhaps, but not uselessly so. More important than instinctual hatreds or risk assessments was the gristly knowledge of what so often happened to Prince LaCroix's officers in central Los Angeles. More important than that was the task she had been given: a half-blind assignment shuffled down through paperwork to intercept insurgent messages passed nearby. No footnote indicated what these messages contained nor how vital they were. Yet the dropper had been neutralized, her two-page report read, and so she need not worry at being caught. Serena was enough accustomed to high-clearance work that imperfect details rarely fazed her. A roll of papers, a folded document, an external hard-drive crammed in mail slots - who knew what forms Anarch intelligence generally took? She was only sure it needed to be hers within the next hour. There had not even been a meeting about it. Someone placed the notice on her small public desk.

These were not satisfying briefings, but they were signs this mission, for its secrecy, was menial – that whatever had been stowed inside that drop, it would not too terribly endanger her, not make her a target. She put little stock in any one of these comforts. Ventrue prepared five moves in advance; while Serena's long-sight was not that fine-tuned yet, she detested waltzing into situations unprepared. There was no passing on Sebastian's orders and it was no surprise to send Ms. Woeburne when discretion was priority, as it was during tenuous ceasefires following murder. But she was not about to play hot-potato with enemy correspondence. The woman had started off this night like every other: tucked keys away next to a pistol, loaded and locked; closed the highest button on her jacket; combed straight her short, dark hair.

Childer of public figures ought not be too abrupt. This in mind, a distracted new arrival counted herself lucky to have noticed being pursued at all, and decided it was best to avoid mulling what-ifs. She expected unforeseen difficulties and inconveniences as a rule, but Ms. Woeburne's field experience was dismally limited: a handful of Sabbat scrapes, odds in her favor; occasional spying, internal affairs, turn-in-your-neighbor variety. She did not enter endeavors anticipating to get shot. So, had there been any palatable way to convince herself the vehicle driving abreast for these last ten minutes did not belong to her predecessor's butcher, Serena would have nabbed it. Mr. LaCroix had no room for half-cocked trigger-pulling. And she always made her assertions painfully sure. The second-guessing operative had thumbed her PDA to a photo-directory; it listed information down to his most recent license plate numbers. Perhaps it would've been wise to read those primers more closely earlier, but that was no good to her now. Denial could be worse than hard reaction. Sebastian was wrong - wrong enough to cost her gravely.

They clearly must have found out somehow. He must have known.

'_Say what you will about Free-State LA,'_ the spooked Ventrue thought; her eyes, more pupil than olives now, moved frantically over pavement. This was exactly what happened to Victor de Luca. Asphalt and street lights - the last things he saw. She clenched ten fingers tightly around the wheel. _'But they waste no time.'_

Haste from enemy radicals was more frightening than admirable, more alarming than routine. Serena had barely begun earnest reconnaissance work – had barely scratched the surface of this dense, polluted city, rummaging through crates of pending paperwork she'd brought from home inside her hotel room every morning. There had been no sneaking about with camera and poorly-fitting disguises. There had been no social mingling or implications LaCroix ushered his progeny here for sinister purposes. He had not even bothered presenting her properly, and Woeburne doubted anyone outside their day-to-day circle knew she existed. Life had been all research and planning since hitting American pavement. She'd sit cross-legged in a free Venture Tower office space or upon her suite's uncomfortable leather couch and read court transcripts, not plunge into dugouts with spy flick fanfare blaring. Perhaps this was by design. Lineage was all she had – quietly, understated, a chilled pedigree beneath a face that blended easily into commuter rush. Sire aside, it was difficult to imagine someone as practically significant would attract insurgent attention, and indeed that may have been why he enlisted her; let her spent twenty-or-so measly, dreary, foggy nights shut alone inside a cubicle.

All things considered, she was still fairly in-the-dark _now_, actually. She was fine line-reading; she was not serving on tribunals, sniffing down leads, quartering classified documents or plotting coups. She was conducting "interference" only in the sense that "interference" might've meant a Prince's private errands.

She hadn't even retrieved that damn intel yet, for God's sake, and pardon her insolence: but it seemed slightly on the overeager side to blow a woman up for running errands.

Blue-milk slog. It was not unusual and only moderately disappointing, but that did not mean prudent Camarilla representatives danced around danger-happy, even on the tame tasks. There had been warnings. Sebastian cautioned his anxious Childe that the local Anarch character was a precarious combination of bullishness and sloppy organization. But in the event they had acquired detailed figures on the newly-sworn Foreman – and she could not imagine why any besieged Baron with half-a-brain would waste time dogging her down otherwise – Serena still doubted anyone was barefaced enough to track a Prince's progeny in-person. Perhaps the negation of their execution ruffled some greasy feathers downtown. Perhaps Nines Rodriguez threw a little temper-tantrum at the insult and decided to personally dispatch every LaCroix proxy from here on-out.

Had she not been mortified, Ms. Woeburne might've felt a small stitch of pride.

Coincidence never entered her mind. She had never been a religious or superstitious individual, and neither was she a damned fool. Coincidences did not happen in Jyhad. Leaning back to sitting-duck position was unbecoming a Camarilla envoy of such high breeding, no matter her company status, no matter how blue-milk her slogs. On preemption, Sebastian had always said victors take the initiative. _ "First blows,"_ he'd quote; she wasn't sure from whom, _"are often last blows."_ It seemed to apply here as much as it ever had to Serena's life. Shaking them was hopeless if they'd identified her and doubly so if there was dynamite already ticking in this gearbox. What if another click of a door fired it on and kicked embers over the fuse? She was not about to stop this car, step out, and stomp straight into a casualty list.

Ms. Woeburne had little mind to end up like poor Victor de Luca – torched to an oily, automotive crisp_._ That would not do. Ms. Woeburne was far too busy for such an unimportant death. Ms. Woeburne had a career in front of her.

And she had a mantra - cocksure and simple, brutally insistent, sometimes fed to her, but hard as any personal creed: _I can handle it._

So, inert heart as leaden as its ribs, Serena had navigated two lanes toward danger rather than scrambling away. She checked her seatbelt. She blew away a grim fork of hair and stonily committed to what was – until that point, anyway – probably her most reckless feat, Kindred or otherwise.

She smashed her toe into the gas pedal and banked hard right.

It sounded like an explosion, at least.

There was a satisfying smack of skull against windshield. Pulling over to look for enemy brainmatter was no option, however – not in this age of stoplight cameras – so Woeburne's deadened foot had flattened the fuel. Wreckage rushed behind her in a matter of seconds. The shell-shocked Ventrue craned to assess her output, standing on carpet, horror stonewalling any imminent concern for her groaning automobile. She could not see the driver. Large strips through exterior paint were gashed across its hull. Two nearby vehicles failed to flag and crashed nose-first into one another, spilling more alloys and plastics over the interstate. One motorcycle had been totaled by a snapped door. Off-kilter wheels were jutting skywards in awkward, gory angles. Ammunition went flying everywhere.

'_My God,' _Serena thought, cotton-mouthed, smacking her lips, icewater nerves. The woman's chest constricted. Her fingers locked; she could not have pried them free if she tried. _'I must've killed him.'_

There was a fierce, fender-sized dent slammed one foot into her bleak car.

A crowd was growing. Ms. Woeburne, absorbing the fallback, slowed long enough to fumble for her mobile. There was a large wobble where one of her wheels ruptured. It made the Volvo hop, a sad Igor; it clacked the teeth inside Serena's head. _Damn it._ She'd grabbed both hands too hard and their soreness made it difficult to tap the right numbers. Or maybe it was the way her wrists were shaking. News radio kept whining into her ear, watch clacking, teeth grinding. Easily a full block ahead of the collision now and nothing seemed to be progressing. Why did they insist on making these buttons so small? The Ventrue was only dimly aware of who could be safely called when a body tumbled, bleary and hit, out of the clobbered pickup's wrenched-off passenger door.

And she thought her night was going poorly.

Nines said it once, he'd say it again: and with the insight of retrospect, would add both _paranoid_ and _insane_ to that initial "Camarilla bitch."

The Anarch fell palms-and-knees onto torched blacktop – huffing, dazed, eyes blinking dully, Hail Mary banging around in his head. Every joint felt like a fiery point of nothingness. Cement granules and bits of scrap twinkled against the roadside. Yellow tracks whorled in his face. Shattered glass wrote into shaky forearms; char marks and blood blossoms singed clothing. His left sleeve was slathered in fierce, unsanitary crimson, thick as paint. Shock barricaded out most everything else – everything else beyond how badly all this spilt gasoline was scorching his skin – but Rodriguez could see smashed wheels, taste iron and smoke, hear human cries. A significant piece of truck was laying yards away from its chassis, thrown across the highway. Red dripped into the space where both his hands pressed the tarmac._ Nose? Mouth? Scalp? What? _He couldn't tell because his fingers were dead. Whatever it was burned, though. Clutch might've been straight through his spine, all he fucking knew, and Nines didn't check only because his limbs were throbbing just about as badly.

The Anarch pawed at his throat, at his breastbone – expecting Swiss cheese, but feeling nothing. One hand popped a dislocated jaw back into place without even thinking about it.

Having ascertained he wasn't on the immediate edge of death, wondering if it was safe to stand up, Baron LA now fixated upon two important questions, unknowns that pounded drumbeats in his brain: _'1. What the fuck just happened?' _and _'2. What the fuck was that?'_

Politics, personalities and protocol aside, Brujah and Ventrue could agree on one thing: coincidences are the iodine of poor physicians.

Impact fog sunk deep, and sunk quick. It blocked out the couple dozen kine buzzarding around, ignored the Good Samaritan construction worker who'd leapt that smashed median to drag away survivors. Benevolent idiot would've probably done more harm than help had anyone else come out of this sort-of-accident alive. No such luck. He flipped over three parched carcasses before finding Nines himself; before either of them could communicate or sort each other out, two big gloved fists had him by the shirt and wrist. Exciting to turn up a live one, maybe, after so much death, because that man pulled him forward without even considering fractures or leaking guts. Rodriguez's ears were ringing too loudly to protest. He couldn't really react when the same guy jammed one shoulder beneath a blood-soaked arm and stood the hundred-year-old Brujah up right. Hell, major mishap aside, Nines might've been impressed with how quickly that clueless son-of-a-bitch heaved-ho, got him back to both feet. He managed to stand on his own with a little push and the sudden crispness of breeze. Palm trees - over all this mess, air still smelled like goddamn palm trees - and it would've been funny, except for the underwaft of roasted meat. One foot under the other. He staggered, was steadied, and it was only when nobody held him up anymore that the Baron realized he _had_ been leaning on that laborer. His right knee wouldn't lock like it should. Wasn't there a wallet in that pocket? Hadn't there just been something to do?

There was this odd leather taste in his mouth. Rodriguez stayed up; then it was someone else's thumb pointing, directing him towards a parked company van-turned-triage. Giant orange debris-crusher. Rubber was smoldering nearby. There was a smear of cyclist lying somewhere back there. Nines fumbled dumbly for his handguns, and located all three – not that either hand knew what to do with a trigger right now. No one fired off any shots.

The human was talking at him. Looked kind of like this hatchetman him and Chester used to run through Springfield with; he remembered an overbite and a luger. He had only distant awareness of what was being said. "_You're alright, man. – Snapped it, that's all. You're gonna' be fine. – You'll be O.K,"_ Average Joe Hero kept repeating, reassurances ad nauseam. It was a little hard to believe when every other inch of muscle tissue felt like an axe dropped out of the clouds and directly into his unsuspecting pickup. Nines saw down at the strange angle of his elbow, noting that bones didn't bend that way. No point in standing. He had to keep moving; figure out what happened; had to get off the street, at least…

The vampire took a physical inventory while he limped along, shaking off wounds, not bothering to speak. Everything was still attached, though he couldn't feel it all yet. Probably a good thing. There were more raw spots and stains than he wanted to count: skids, friction patches, skin tears. A shadow of forklift hung overhead; a forgotten helm rolled back-and-forth on the ground. Headlights flashed on the fronts of stopped vehicles. His mind was spinning in circles. Nines headed dazedly for the roadside, trying not to attract attention, good arm tucked protectively around his middle. The right one was busted, he knew, alongside what felt like an ankle and a side. How many ribs had cracked between the dashboard and driver's seat could only be guessed at. It was all a general, hazy hurt. There were too many points of stress, too much unclear. He sat heavily on the median and tried to make his mind tick straight again.

The incident stamped thought, struck deafness. He perked up fast when the red-and-blue came thundering down I-10, though.

Police approach signals safety to some; that telltale whine is a terrible sound to Kindred. Ms. Woeburne, forced to punch her breaks in the wake of a gawker's delay, observed both inconveniences with equal concern. The Ventrue's vehicle had squeaked one car-length short of sandwiching a family SUV ahead. Aching fists white-knuckled the steering wheel. Sharp, sugarcane edges bristling, Serena seriously considered bailing out of whole disaster and dashing up the freeway on foot. She couldn't _sit_ here; she had to _do_ something. No Childe of Sebastian LaCroix was willing to compromise their organization by being convicted for a messy hit-and-run.

"_You are being hysterical,"_ Prince Los Angeles would have said – and she heard these words as though her hardhearted benefactor had been sitting in the passenger's seat. _"Calm yourself, and assess your situation with a clear and clever head."_

Ms. Woeburne stopped, sobered, and smoothed her hackles into something resembling sanity. It was with cold calculation – a disconnected, dispassionate analysis Sebastian would've complimented – that she then scrutinized the present situation. Serena took her scene apart. The night was ten degrees from chilly. Slight, invariable wind kept curious civilians strapped in their seats. Two blaring squad cars led an ambulance towards the crash-site some distance behind her, and a striped mover's semi rumbled from the opposite direction. Its operator, some unshaven man of middle-years sporting a NASCAR cap, was already decelerating. A professional driver would've parked several meters away.

'_Unacceptable,' _Serena decided. Without criticizing what her body was doing, Ms. Woeburne stood up through the moon-roof with pistol-in-hand, and she sent a bullet directly into that miserable redneck's frontal lobe.

A plan drawn, a series of events:

Forehead thunked down on a dashboard map. Legs went heavy, useless. A lifeless hand spilled coffee from its holder. The eighteen-wheeler stuttered a handful of feet, tentative in its newfound freedom, dipping its toes. Speed built gradually. Then, quite without warning, both axles foundered, and the oblong abdomen swung around to careen lamely for those milling kine.

All of five minutes. Maybe seven, if you counted the collision itself.

He had not been facing the truck. Nines Rodriguez was sitting braced hands-upon-knees against a chunk of median, dumping someone's water bottle over his stinging neck, trying to wake himself up. Lukewarmth had never provided so much relief – not in the midst of a firefight, not in wheatfield, not when it had been wet tastelessness that quenched thirst rather than blood. A thousand confusions were racing haywire through the man's recovering mind. It turned his eardrums back to church bells and static.

Until something – something that sounded fearfully like overloaded front wheels – _popped _a distance down the highway.

He did not hear the roar from onlookers and rescue staff. He didn't hear the single gunshot only seconds before. When those ill-omened fenders toppled, though, Nines heard – without a doubt – sheet metal shave concrete. Every scrape and screech twanged a vertebra from top to tailbone. He snapped up, crow-black hair dripping down both temples, to see the lilting wall of red sparks.

'_This is not my goddamn day,'_ Nines thought. Then he jumped forward, leaving the paralyzed humans, and threw himself viciously through that rapidly closing gap of floorboard and sky.

By the time the truck had settled in this razed stretch of road – bed collapsed, Good Samaritan killed, mass crushing cars – Ms. Woeburne was a mile away.


	8. Wolves at the Door

**Wolves at the Door**

When Nines limped into _The Last Round_ later that night, Jack laughed the death right off his face.

"Catch a gander at this sorry son-of-a-bitch," the old Brujah crowed from his seat at their den bar. He was joyously slanderous, inappropriate by design; he was a man whose hands were perpetually dirty; whose fingernails, blackened by exhaust, curled around the cup of blood he held. And despite how he'd shouted it out, there had been no panic. Smiling Jack looked every bit himself in the face of a wounded Baron. Smoke-smudged tattered leather; coyote eyes were happily crinkled. Purpled lips pared back to frightening teeth - obvious teeth, wolverine teeth, yellowed first by vodka and then by time. There was something triumphant in making the declaration, in laughing at the damage done. Rodriguez ignored him.

Two steps past the storm door, worn wood its usual withering green, and there hadn't been room for a word except Jack's.

"We-heh-hell! Call me a blue-assed monkey's ugly great-uncle. Been a _long_ time since I seen you looking quite this low, Captain Kidd." There was no hesitation, no consideration given for the blanched looks of the sad little crowd as they watched their smarted headman trudge in. His greeting was a sadistic, delighted little hoot - the response to misfortune upon a brother you disliked. Rodriguez ignored him. It was the only option; you could not argue with it. You could not acknowledge it. In this ragged Free-State pariah were decades of seafarer's spite and renegade arrogance, molded together into something cruel, not to be fought. The rumors were outrageous and many. Some said Calico Jack for the nickname, some said Blackbeard by the way he'd twist the singed color of his. Didn't matter much; the myths were uncertain, but the reality was most definitely here. Reality was not pleasant. It tore a crumbling cigar out of its mouth, shaking embers onto the hardwood and grinding them out. "Not since San Fran, at least. Oh, wait. That wasn't _you_. You weren't there. Hah-hah-hah! Now I remember."

Rodriguez ignored him. Rodriguez had a lot of practice at ignoring Jack's taunts by now.

Young Anarchs did a better job coexisting with State superstars than their speakers did. Mean, speechless and snickering uneasily, they purposefully mistook Jack's malice as his obscure sense of humor. You did not question or engage an urban legend; you did not pick at his jokes looking for challenges. So it was that downtown's fresh blood, hot as it ran around here, usually forgave their distinguished guest his insults – usually. They wrote off his disrespect as a normal, friendly mode of interaction. They grinned and enjoyed his attention, whether that attention came in conversation or cheap-shots. It was for this reason the lot of them did not perceive contempt and mistrust in how this black sheep jeered at their standing chieftain. That was not entirely surprising. The unkempt way he moseyed about LA - tattered jacket, leather gloves, spurred boots - you could do nothing else but assume old Smilin' Jack meant well. Maybe it was his style of friendship. Maybe most everything started to seem funny after your four-hundredth birthday.

Nines was not laughing. Nines bristled at dominance undermined, at pecking orders dismissed; Nines loathed silently as his authority was mocked by a vampire too large to fight. And every time the run-down, sideaways fuck barked out a disparaging comment or that _rat-a-tat_ chuckle, Nines's patience grew shorter, fists tightening while he was forced to shut up and swallow the poison down.

Baron Angeltown was big-time, but not _that_ big-time. He couldn't enter a feud with a Free-State titan; he could only wait for him to leave, growing angrier and less patient every time the Elder ridiculed him.

Jack probably did it so often for this very reason.

_The Last Round_ did not, however, share Jack's good mood as their leader lugged in: road-tattered, shirt stitches ripped, bare spots littered with skids and burns. Short sleeves bunched to show a glass laceration; cuts crisscrossed along the Anarch's forearms. Dark blotches sickened exposed skin. There was a red blood bruise right on the left side of his neck, and the Anarch's back teeth clenched with every stinging step. It was a disturbing thing to see for those who venerated him. Rodriguez was One Bad S.O.B., a statement most locals would've backed, but he couldn't keep from favoring his left leg. The pups stared, sobered, flat-lining before anyone could feel shocked.

"What the holy FUCK." Skelter couldn't get it out fast enough.

"What in God's sweet name happened to you, Boy Wonder?" Jack pestered, arms crossed happily over both sides. His humor was uncensored and this blanched the unspeaking neonates even worse. It was upsetting to see your leaders hurt; it was not encouraging to hear those same leaders, the ones you called your last hope, referred to as _boy_. "You lose a sumo match to a goddamn monster truck?"

"Semi," Nines gritted out, easing himself slowly into the cradle of a corner-booth, careful of his broken arm. It still hurt even though the bone had already begun sorting itself out. He had a blackened eye and a banged knee. He sucked air at an unexpected prod that ricocheted up his femur and scattered at the Brujah's hipbone.

Jack's forehead smacked into the bar top. Tumblers went rolling. He howled.

The wounded Angeleno blocked it out. Rodriguez was too drained to care much or knock heads for dumb reasons. The Anarch took great relief in this piece-of-shit Elysium, and in how quickly pain began to wane away – tension releasing, joints uncatching – his body's reward for finally finding a safe place to sit down. He would've liked to sprawl back across the bench and sleep. Small comforts and public naps were not an option, however. You couldn't show weakness to these people, even when it was obvious; you had to deny it until there were no more Brujah around or no more hopes of surviving. Being hurt drew Camarilla fire. Letting yourself _feel_ hurt would scare their already dismayed warren full of kids, sound alarms, and Nines saw no reason his stupid highway escapades should bring about the uncomfortable realization of how easily martyrs were made. Alphas did not lick scars before their packs. In this, there are a hundred more important worries than ego; there are a dozen political risks that can't be taken, not in California and not in the eye of a double-invasion hurricane. Who knew what idiotic chain of events revenge could set off among a clan priding nothing more than their own dignity? Enemies were too close in LA. Everyone had to keep their heads. That necessity had been clear to State leadership for many years; before Rodriguez, before Sebastian LaCroix, before one bad step could kill you in Los Angeles like some kind of fucking criminal. That was the way things stood. That was a far worse hurt than anything could be done to his body.

It didn't even look all that bad, really. The collection of scrapes and splotches stung worse than they seemed by this point, a result of genetic resiliency; no complaints here. Attempting to compensate for his appearance, Nines soldered on the gruffest face manageable and pretended his hollering ribcage didn't feel like it was just triple salchowed by a goddamn wrecking ball. He had been lucky to make it home without any further disasters. Too banged-up to show his face outside, paranoias screaming, downtown's Baron slunk back here on foot, trading every aching step for the security of getting lost. Nothing would convince him the danger'd passed, that it hadn't been orchestrated. Jyhad didn't work like real life did. Rodriguez had too many enemies and too little faith in chance to believe accidents anymore.

And evidently he wasn't alone in that suspicion, because the only phrase to describe how Damsel stomped downstairs was "freight train."

Nines figured it hurt going head-over-heels beneath that lilting eighteen-wheeler, avoiding hot pipes by inches, soaking vicious friction burns all up and down his arms. The Brujah also found it pretty damn painful when his temple splintered a windshield few moments before, speckling nose blood on car plastic. And Rodriguez certainly detected a nagging little pinch when the steering wheel crumpled forward and gave his captive arm a greasy wishbone _snap!_

"Hurt" was actually when their Den Mother cannonballed into him, and in wrenching his elbow into a straight position, somehow landed her fist directly atop his deeply-bruised thigh.

The Anarch barked like a kicked Rottweiler. Smiling Jack just about choked up a lung.

"DAMSEL," Nines belted out, world sweltering white, the fairytale name he'd meant to sound furious hitting air with a yelp. Stars went super-nova behind closed eyelids. He couldn't swallow the next holler, either, when she released his imprisoned arm with a merciless half-twist. Radius and ulna wrenched back into their proper position beneath seven sore sheets of skin. Necessary, but it was tough medicine, and Rodriguez had been putting off his various dislocations for a reason. There was a core of nausea radiating from the hollow of his insides. His mouth felt foamy. He almost did lay down.

So much for minimizing the damage. Red's idea of nursing needed some refinement.

"What the fuck happened to you!" she hollered, more accusation than question, a distinction that was a little hard to care about when you'd just had your shoulder manhandled back into place. Damsel was standing in front of him with arms crossed, worried face a color smudge. Window glass, cherry hair and the vacant bar teetered dizzily for a moment. There might've been a fracture in his collarbone somewhere.

Nines didn't particular want to discuss it right now. He grabbed his ribcage, looked dismally at his twisted arm and groaned.

Den Mother in LA was no kind of a mother, no matter how fiercely the orphan tried to become one; she wasn't well-spoken or consoling, didn't have any postmortem medical training, and lacked leadership experience (not to mention a few notches in the restraint department). Nobody challenged her, though - because most locals these nights either didn't need mommying or were even younger and newer. Still, it was pretty obvious she'd landed her antiquated title due to political convenience and being the only Brujah female around. All that said, though, one couldn't snipe at her response time. Red was impressively callous under stress, assessing emergencies - whatever their nature - with a brute force more fitting for military managers than mama bears. Injuries and Masquerade breaches had the same chilling, prioritizing, down-to-business effect upon her. Having fixed the most obvious problem, Damsel pushed that dumb beret back, squinting; because it was hard to see in this smoky light, she reached up, hastily angling a lampshade to funnel light right on Nines's face. He winced unhappily and shoved her away with his good arm. No use. The push in her gut meant nothing; she rebounded, even more insistent for having been waylaid. A sloppy tool-box-turned-first-aid-kit had found its way from the storage cabinets and into her short, stout hands.

"Did you go to Hallowbrook? Did you fuck up your knee?" she threatened – not wondered, but _threatened_. "I told you to wear a fucking vest if you're going to go stomping around by yourself. I told you..."

Nines did his best to swat Damsel's mitts away.

"Knock it off," he griped, the pain in his voice making it snarl. She ducked a swipe. Damsel may have been undeterred, but there was serious disquiet in the way their typically soft-voiced leader had – for a severe, compassionless moment – bared his fangs like a wild dog. "I don't need you fussin' me. It's fine." (Which was not untrue; without catastrophic blood-loss or any time-bomb organs to rupture, Cainite physiology had slowly begun to sew up minor harms. Things were starting to clear up again. He shook his head and tried blinking away the fuzziness.) "Just back the fuck down. Give me some air."

The woman fidgeted, scowling concern, but was not about to disobey a direct order. For now, Damsel satisfied her anxiety by plopping that box on the table, rifling through the random hardware that masqueraded as surgeon's tools. "Like hell, Nines."

Skelter, having regained a little life in his cheeks, eyed the young Brujah resentfully. "Strictly speaking," he remarked – more of a snort. "Den Mothers are supposed to patch up the wounded. Not make a goddamn bigger nuisance of themselves. What the hell happened?"

Nines sort of hoped he might lapse into shock again. Said Den Mother had been about two seconds from upturning a bottle of alcohol over his bloodied forearm as though it might help anything but the horror she was holding back.

He shoved her off again. Droplets flung into the air; whatever she'd almost poured burnt like acid, bubbled like peroxide. Rodriguez's jaw clenched, but storytelling distracted him enough to prevent any more pathetic noises. The grim-faced lieutenant waited. Neither of them were exactly certain for what. "I'm not sure what this was. It wasn't a fight I picked," Rodriguez spat, mostly to Damsel, who was too busy steaming for bait like that. Somebody stood up in the back room and shuffled to peer at him across their empty bar. Nines tried not to see or care. "Was on I-10. Came the fuck out of nowhere. Just met with Abrams, so it's possible somebody tailed me in from Hollywood. But again, I don't know. Not like I did anything real suspicious, something to get attention... was headed out to Sunnyside, and nobody's wise on that. Scout paged me thirty, maybe fifty minutes before hand. One of our San Fran people - got him up in Bakersfield right now I think. You know him, Skelter. Atlantic. Decent kid. Been monitoring this slimy Cam ghoul who operates out of an apartment near Mercy Hospital."

"Mercurio. I know that weedy fuck. Saw him pissing around by Gabe's downtown few months ago," the Gangrel remembered, molars clenched. Tendons twitched along a short jaw. Bronze eyes were thin and dubious. This was a familiar expression, one Nines himself wore many times; it went something like _should have killed him when I had the chance_. Should've, could've, would've… "_He_ do this to you?"

The Baron grimaced when a toothed, irksome pang hit his shoulder again. The nerves were waking back up. "I don't know. Doubt it, but it's possible. Would help if I knew what the hell our contact tried to pass on - circumstances being what they were, I didn't make the pick-up. Our San Fran people can re-drop if it's worth it since Sunnyside might be dead to us now. Anyway, even if it's not: I still think it's highly unlikely that Camarilla fuck had the motive to stage assassinations. I took measures not to associate myself with Atlantic while he's working. Shit, I couldn't pick his face out of a crowd. Safe as can be. Sure as hell was no accident, though."

"Set-up?" Skelter asked, dark temperament steeling at the notion.

Nines bit his tongue, a small tingle that diverted attention from all the other twangs and throbs. "Don't think so. I imagine if LaCroix got bold enough to order a hit on me – middle of the damn night, middle of the highway – I'd be a whole hell of a lot deader right now. Doesn't fit his profile to try and kill like that. Car crashes are sloppy. They attract police and bystanders and collateral. Not his style."

"You don't think Isaac…"

"No," Rodriguez ruffed, and his sudden glare shut the query down.

Playboy, downtown's marksman misfit, stuck his badly-bleached head of hair outside their front door. The Toreador's eyes were an old rust color and scanned parking slots with growing disappointment. "Hey," he noticed, an offhand and unassuming voice, upbeat even in its demands. "Where'd you leave our…?" Realization dawned. A wiry palm slapped his forehead, hitting with knuckles and watch. "Oh, tell me you're kidding! You killed Bonny?" Kent-Alan wore a beat-up, secondhand sports jacket that looked more like greaser leather than the corduroy it used to be. Its scuffed shoulders leapt to the diamonds in his earlobes, then - at Rodriguez's irritated look - plummeted. "This is a sad day. How are we going to move all the Bernardino's heavy ordinance next week? And you just abandoned her out on the field, too? Tragic as hell!"

"Don't know what to tell you."

Kent closed the door, slogging back with fingers in coat pockets and chin-to-chest. Threadbare orange Rocket Dogs clapped the floorboards dejectedly. "Poor old girl," he sighed, a Cali-kid exterior with a melodrama bent. Playboy's own bloodline was his best running joke. "'This fell sergeant, death, is strict in his arrest!'"

Damsel's upper lip pulled into a flinch. It was not a product of Nines's crusting blood. "Shut the fuck up, K-Al," the Den Mother spat, less attached to that worn gun-runner of a pickup than she was disgusted with a performance. Poor beach burnout never could slide into Isaac's world of white-collar glitz – his blood ran more Brujah red than artiste gold – but a suffocating Anarch den was eager to welcome gifted outcasts. With that long-legged, ambling stroll and rail-drifter's ease, lady-killer Kent Alan was to revolvers what Jackson Pollock was to finger-paint. You didn't get it and the results looked too easy to be real talent, but that's OK. Nines needed a good deputy. Shame the cheerful fledge couldn't close his damn mouth. "This is not a goddamn stand-up. There's nothing funny about this."

One of the Toreador's lanky hands rapped upon his breastbone like a pledge. "Sorry, Momma," Kent apologized without apologizing, fighting down a shit-eating grin.

Playboy was pretty damn lucky his Den Mother didn't bother getting up.

"Can I continue, please? I'm not going to talk over this shit." The impatience was stiff and hackled in Rodriguez's voice. Bickering stopped. Nines dulled his bladelike, half-threatening look. "The wreck caught me off-guard, so I didn't I.D. plates or a driver. Punched right over the median and into traffic. Big goddamn pile-up. Truck nearly turned me into a smear. It was a pretty big vehicle, about SUV-size. A… a Volvo, I think," the Anarch mumbled, cringing with the absurdity of that image. There was one hell of a Camarilla damage report: Prince LaCroix's number-one detractor knocked clean by a speeding soccer mom. Nines needed a drink. He didn't care what it was. "Whoever, whatever jumped me was long gone before I got out of there. Wasn't a lot of time to go poking around for evidence. But I think somebody shot that trucker. Which means - if you ain't figured this out - somebody was probably aiming to smash me up good." Cobalt eyes flickered in the most stoic vampire's direction. "Skelter, any way we can get video of this? Street cameras, choppers, police radio – that sort of thing?"

A thoughtful frown dented the man's face, who'd said very little since his commander came through the door. He nodded. "Doughie used to be a cop. I'll give him a call; maybe he can pull traffic footage."

"You do that. Somebody contact Atlantic and warn him he may be compromised. Meanwhile, I'm going to get Isaac on the phone, see if he knows anything about this mess. Maybe the Nosferatu can wrap their claws around some…" A pause.

"_Kid_—" Nines warned. Damsel – who had been creeping up on Rodriguez's shoulder cut with a napkin – retreated.

When Smiling Jack rejoined their conversation, there were tears glistering in the vampire's eyes – salty, sneering, scouts'-honor tears. "Wait, wait," he tuttered, a hand heel on his forehead, trying to pin down the creases there. He wasn't trying hard enough. The man's maw twisted around smoker's cuspids. "Hold up a minute here. Let me get this shit straight. You get your truck's ass tapped by a fuckin'-" The Brujah's Adam's apple wobbled with laughter. "-by a fuckin' _Volvo_, and best of all, you just got a 'feeling' this is some kind of Grand Ol' Party scheme? Who says we're dealing with an attack at all? Maybe some Malk fell asleep at the freakin' wheel, took a headlong ticket into your passenger door. Hah-hah-hah! Volvo! This is the best goddamn day of my year."

Nines offered the guffawing old pirate a brief look at his middle finger.

"Why don't you fuck off, Jack?" Damsel's nose was wrinkled, arrowheads drawn back in livid eyes. She pointed the handful of gauze in his face. "Seriously! Why don't you just get the fuck up and leave. Cause if you're gonna sit there on your hands and crack wise, what use do I have for you? What use do I have for some musty-ass, gray old geezer loafing around, wasting space and sucking down our goddamn reserves? I mean, Jesus, if you're going to just fucking laugh- If this is some goddamn source of amusement for you-" Aggression shuddered her shoulders. "Christ, I get so fucking sick of your _shit_."

You had to give Little Red credit: she always blurted out exactly what her surrogate Sire was too smart to say.

"Bah!" the lectured vampire belched out, waving her hissing off. Sometimes Jack lived for baiting their fire-breathing junior mascot. Others, he didn't really spare the energy. "Cool off, mami. Get those milk-teeth out of my sight before I yank 'em."

Nines grabbed a fistful of the Den Mother's shirt and hoisted her back into his booth before she did something regrettable.

"Look," he said. Forcefulness was an attempt to sand the injuries and frustration from his tone. He tried to keep the same sound, the same pitch, all times - leant his image on the voice people associated with Nines Rodriguez - downy rasp, everyman heroic, purposefully too low for a loud room. It was a little manufactured, the drawl a little overplayed, but it went a long way towards keeping people calm. He'd been trained up to rely on that voice since before he was somebody, before it was easy to talk. Talking was all anyone did now. That was what Los Angeles had become. But Baron Los Angeles was good at talking - better, maybe, than most everybody else with nicer words and nicer speeches had counted on. "Much as it doesn't settle with me, point is: Jack's not wrong. I don't know what the hell happened tonight, and I don't know who's responsible. Could very well be an organized threat, but then again – maybe not. That's why we're going to find out," or so they were reminded. Kent-Alan stuffed both hands deeper in his pockets. A first-year kid who's name Nines couldn't recall looked like a ghost about to vanish in the stairwell dark. "Until then, I want everyone watching their backs, and watching this place. We don't need somebody's ego giving Venture a reason, either, so don't talk about this. Don't pick fights. Don't act up in public or I will bust you one myself. And no sticking your necks out 'til this dies down, understand?"

"You better believe it, sonny. Hah-hah!" Obscene hilarity - threatening humor. He could not, or would not, will it down. "Flipped a motherfuckin' semi on your dead ass! Woo. I hope it's the Cam. I'd like this Cammy."

Smiling Jack was myth made flesh, a morale-booster to a sinking State, a sign they couldn't beat. But there were times that Nines Rodriguez really hated having the rank old bastard around.

Tonight was one of those times.

It had been a long time coming. A long time coming, but he didn't imagine it'd come like this.

"Come on," Baron LA said, sighed, nudged Damsel out of his way, and beckoned to the armory downstairs. "Let's find me a goddamn vest."


	9. The Lion's Paw

**The Lion's Paw**

When Ms. Woeburne limped into Venture Tower later that night, the Prince - maleficent, pernicious - terrified her more than he ever had before.

He laughed.

The bizarreness of her evening hadn't reached its heights with colliding into Nines Rodriguez on I-10, but in the events that followed: barren black lobby, abandoned help desk, echoing penthouse floor. The white oak of those daunting doors at the end of a long hall swinging open. Joelle nowhere to be found. The nothingness of it all seemed unreal, impossible. She had been so afraid to climb this tower, so struck stupid, that Serena had almost cried in the parking lot, with only the anesthesia of shock drying her empty.

And, of course, then came her Sire - lancing down that malevolent corridor before she'd barely stepped out of the elevator.

Mahogany, filing cabinets and legal coolness prickled the fine hair on the young Foreman's neck when she saw him. Serena immediately broke eye contact, because she showed deference and because she was painfully aware of the dangers in looking Ventrue directly in their eyes. She focused on wallpaper, on garish patterning, on imperial gold. Yet there was a strange, frostbitten, wild quality in one glimpse at Mr. LaCroix's that shut deadbolts through her knees, that did not mandate staring. His soles clapped the floor with distinct gunshot pangs. His face was perfunctorily inscrutable; its edges were cast in high, cool hues. Ms. Woeburne couldn't find anything to say or anywhere to move – and, for one madcap, nightmare instant – she thought the Prince might be coming to kill her.

The Childe felt herself petrify, adrenaline locking jaw and ankles, suddenly no longer a quick-thinking operative but a mute tin man with death written all over her reproducible chrome face.

Nobody killed her.

Instead, they spoke.

Sebastian cut off whatever his progeny might've managed to sputter with a curt, horseman cluck of his tongue and two cold fingers at her elbow. There were no hellos or handshakes. She stopped like a held colt. Those digits were terribly cool.

"Ah, ah. Hold, please! I'm not interested in whatever it is," he commanded, fearfully basic instruction, and only then was she aware her mouth had opened. Serena sucked in and choked on a ramshackle excuse. She could not gauge his anger from that stiff, incredulous voice. Murderous enthusiasm rattled against the usual layer of brisk, metropolitan calm. And, perhaps above all else: surprise.

But only half the full glass, as it always was with surprising one's Sire.

"Pause. One moment. Before anything else: you must humor me, dear." Mr. LaCroix began, an order and somehow a threat. That odd aura about him chilled the blood. Perhaps it was panic and perhaps this offbeat expression truly was new, but she found herself unable to read his face, and it did nothing to ease the woman's dread. He was still talking. Her heart was a stone. "I don't want a monologue. You know I've already heard. The report is sitting on my desk, but all the same, I want to hear a 'yes' straight from your lips. Tell me – simply, now – did you _really_?"

Ms. Woeburne gulped the thickness, the patina of spit coating her throat. It went down like cotton balls. "Sir," the corporal stabbed - in a voice she found stunningly tangible, minimal squeak. Had there still been a lung inside of her? Controlling the shaking of her hands was difficult, so Serena clasped them together sternly behind both hips. Shoulders bunched; calves clenched. The Childe's rigid body had sufficiently prepared itself for disaster. "I did. I did - really - did what I believed I had to. It was an emergency. I never intended to strike, and I swear that I didn't think-"

But whatever argument that stern-face had gathered in her defense was then dispatched. It was not with a knife, not under a guillotine, not at the end of a pistol - by a sudden, disorienting, smattering cloudburst of laughter.

He did not wait for a legitimate _yes_. Her predictable fumbling was enough.

Mr. LaCroix laughed himself halfway to happiness.

The Prince's lofty, staccato cackles sounded like a snare-drum. His head whipped back, unreserved and informal. Each rattle struck Serena's ego in a hail of machinegun fire.

He was laughing. Laughing.

"Dear Childe! Dear, dear child," Sebastian cried, scone-light confusing where the noble bones met behind his unloving face. He had cheeks like a Roman captain who'd descended into madness. "I am _so_ sorry. I owe you a retraction - my sincerest apology. Why I ever doubted the strength of your character is a mystery. My _soldat d'ingénue_! My little Mata Hari!" Serena had never heard her reserved, ceremonial Sire grow so loud unless he was yelling. And she first came to know surreal that night: when Prince LaCroix clapped a vicious arm around his descendant's shoulders, skidding her into a semi-embrace, and pressed a jovial, smacking kiss on the crown of Ms. Woeburne's too-short hair. The Foreman's teeth clenched in a visible, thunderstruck, lopsided grimace. She did not feel a toy soldier or anyone's Mata Hari. She felt like some drooling, pie-eating village idiot who saw harmless mockery and feared the rack. It spooked her pissless.

Sebastian's arm captured hers, half-escorting/half-towing the woman towards his office. She loped awkwardly on a snapped-off heel.

There is an expression that comes in situations like these. But it is a tired expression, and it is overblown, and Ms. Woeburne has never liked exaggerating when the candid truth will do. So appreciate that sentiment - and appreciate the dead, dull, blanched set of her face - when you consider this: she was scared out of her _mind_.

That ill, squirrelish feeling went to absolute flight when the door clicked shut behind them. Now he would scold her; _now_ Sebastian would scream, for certain. Except he certainly didn't. Actually, his back pressed flat against the wood, and our straight-laced protagonist helplessly watched her Sire slide down into a slumped-over racket.

Simply because she did not know what else to do, Ms. Woeburne stepped forward and offered the hysterical vampire a hand. Her whole arm was trembling enough to really be hilarious. Sebastian took his face out of his palms, took one look at Serena's derailed condition, and immediately crumbled again.

Ventrue did not like untested elements. She would have rather he hollered her straight through the picture windows.

"Well... well, very good. It's all right," LaCroix decided, finally reeling back in. There was pompous authority to that announcement despite the humor still blazing on his face. Verdict determined, Prince Los Angeles pushed himself off this door-turned-crutch without accepting her aid and moved, quite purposefully, for the waiting desk. His strict features were made muzzy by the persistent, menacing sheen of merriment. Serena could see delicately murderous fangs glint through her Sire's grin. Purely reflex action, he swiped an arm over his brow. There was no sweat to mop.

"Mr. LaCroix," she tried - was cut off.

"Joelle," the man chuckled into his intercom, thumb bouncing its call button. He was smiling distantly. "Ring up Mr. Roderick and let him know his term of service has been extended. Tell him Ms. Woeburne is not to leave my cabinet for the foreseeable future. That's all, thank you."

Then Serena did squeak - a frightful, violent sound - and almost bit through her bottom lip when Sebastian snatched out, icy fingers grappling the Ventrue's chin, to give his Childe's face a muttlike shake. The instinct to pull away was muzzled by leadenness. That stone in her chest had gotten big, heavy, become a bulwark. It did not let her move. She wanted desperately to feel proud, beloved; the affection of the action, patronizing but genuine, dawned upon her swiftly. There was nothing furious about it. There were no damages done. She should have been radiant - but, a Prince's hand pressing the soft skin that sheathed a jugular – Ms. Woeburne was too frightened for herself. "Dear child," he said again. "What am I to do with you now? What, indeed. I might never have called you here if I expected you were capable of that sort of recklessness. Pitifully reckless. If you asked me - if my professional opinion had been asked - I'd have said you'd rather fall under the tracks than dare something so extreme. Not_ my_ Ms. Woeburne. You have totaled my baseline assessment of you. So I recommend you enjoy the moment, because this is the _best_ bungle-" He let her go and left no prints behind to disturb. "-you will ever commit."

_Disturb?_ No, not nearly. Serena was terrorized.

"Well, madam." Mr. LaCroix finally sat down, dabbing a corner of handkerchief to the sides of his face. He flung it back without checking for wetness. In that scrape of drawer were brakes squealing on a warm highway far below. "Please, have a seat. And let us be clear. Do not mistake me for being happy. I am _not_ happy. I can not even begin to tell you how unhappy the incomplete outcomes of tonight have made me. However-" The freefall of her stomach lurched upwards again, a roller-coaster of an evening, enough to destroy. She saw the twinge of displeasure on her progenitor's countenance. She was sitting down, yes - sitting rather too closely across that ominous desk - but had no recollection of doing it. "The root of my unhappiness does not begin or end with you. Unseen variables sometimes change plans. I recognize that. So, much as I'd rather gloss them over in the spirit of the thing, there are a few practicalities regarding this particular variable we must attend to. Tell me," Sebastian asked. Surprised, perhaps… but he struck her as strangely unshocked. "What have you done with the vehicle?"

"It's at the bottom of the Pacific, sir. Of course," Serena answered with some returning confidence. Practicalities always helped the agent settle down; they were focal points with which to overcome discomfiture or distress. She crossed both legs in the comfortable client's chair. _'Ingénue, perhaps, but Ms. Woeburne is not a damn moron.' _"I disposed of the plates separately. Thoroughly. My rental account was a fake; we should have no concerns there."

"Good. Good. Capital. Joelle will buy you a new one tomorrow. Perhaps I should tell her to get something with racing stripes." The Prince's cool air splintered for a giggle he couldn't hold down. Serena would've blushed had she the blood flow for it. Her wrists were a lost cause.

Partially to save-face and partially because the startling way he'd approached her made Ms. Woeburne blank it until now, she added on. "Oh, and - sorry; I should have said this immediately - the information was positive. I retrieved the files you asked for. Late, but at least the Anarchs were delayed. I suppose they would've implicated us whether I got them or not, so I... I did. I'm sorry. About the mess, and that it took me so long." She reached into her jacket and pulled a heavily-creased, flattened manila envelope from behind the lapel. He leant far over the enamel to accept it. And, without even popping a clasp, the entire bundle disappeared into his cabinets – no peeks, no double-checks, no covetous dark blue flicking every line. It had been her peace offering, her cheap twine lifeline. He tossed it over the discarded hankie. A small key locked everything shut.

She did not angrily shout _"You told me there'd be no resistance"_; she did not accuse him of endangerment, withheld details or poor information. She might have. Maybe a tucked-and-filed part of Serena had been tempted to – but larger, smarter facets of the Ventrue knew there would be no point. To pry deeply in these matters won nothing but more lies; to force issues meant prompt, possibly permanent silence. Full disclosure was not ideal in a postmortem game of musical chairs – a precarious dance that ended less like schoolyard gambling and more like Russian roulette. You understood walking into this world that very little would ever unfold as it seemed. If you could not roll with the punches, you deteriorated, and eventually you (quite literally) blew away.

And there was no use guessing at his rationale, a man centuries older and immeasurably shrewder. Mild reactions and a quick shuffle-off could have been distraction ploys, attempts to cloak the hidden importance of what lay within that folder. Or perhaps private Prince LA simply didn't wish to read it in a child's presence. Either way, one confession had come. Whatever end product Sebastian had expected of her – of tonight – it had not been this.

Though the actual result was not necessarily a disappointment. If it had been, at least, the hilarity overrode the hostility of botched operations. "Now," he continued, _ahem_ sobering his throat. Five fingers combed through and tamed loose fringes of gold hair into their proper place. "This is somewhat more important than transportation, so answer me honestly. Do bear in mind that I can only offer you adequate protection if I know there is a warranted need. Do you believe you were identified? We may need to take some legal precautions, as I trust, reading our current climate, the former Baron did not perish. I can only guess at the resultant brouhaha if he had. Brujah-hah" Sebastian snorted, realizing what he'd just said. Ms. Woeburne meted out a wretched smile. She had never seen the portentous Mr. LaCroix lose it quite like this.

Prince LA was apologetic as possible for tittering like a French schoolgirl. The sharp slant of his shoulders momentarily shook. "Forgive me; I _am_ sorry. You must pardon my unorthodox response to this. But." He captured a solitary fountain pen with which to scratch out checks and requisitions. It tapped between two fingers like a metronome. Blue ink spat on blank parchment. "I do need your estimate."

Odd. Serena had often wished her progenitor would relax his airs on those rare occasions they were alone together – wondered after the closeness she'd heard accompanied most bonds between Sire and Childe – but this distraught her. "I imagine he would've had to, Mr. LaCroix. Before the incident, I mean. Else, I have no idea what might've motivated an attack on me; I hadn't even made the pick-up at that point. Surely there wouldn't have been a leak? And yes. My efforts aside, he was alive when I cleared the scene." Scattered thoughts, statements of doubt, insecurities padded like questions. Her burgundy mouth pursed into a fine line. "I hope I haven't halted your agendas, sir. Or our foothold here. I know the atmosphere is rickety - not to stir a hive. But I didn't see a choice, so I did what I believed was best. Nothing more than that."

"On the contrary. If you had actually killed a Baron, my dear – without concrete evidence, that is – I imagine I might be very annoyed with you. London may be fairly segmented territory, but we do not act in Los Angeles without provable cause." The arch of Sebastian's brow testified to that. His warning dissolved quickly, though; the entertainment she'd provided settled him back into something more temperate. "I see the thinking behind your action. It was faulty thinking, I think you understand. But, while this may be somewhat opposite of what I'd hoped, I can hardy blame you for having survival instincts. And thankfully, it seems there's no grave harm done to me. Though I fully expect to be getting a call from those brutes some time before the night is through. Oh, that's _perfect_. I bet the megalomaniacs in Hollywood are fuming. Splendid."

"Mr. LaCroix," Serena bit out, suddenly gripped by a new, harder bodily concern sent barging through her distraction. Images of Rodriguez's ragtag army sharpening their throwing knives and sanding baseball bats conjured itself, furiously, from Sebastian's words. She was staring vacantly to the black windows outside. You could see pupils contract inside walls of diluted green. "Should I be preparing for this? If there's likely to be ramifications, I'd want to expect them beforehand. I mean to say… my apartment isn't exactly the most secure locale, and I-"

Prince LaCroix grinned. The silence was both bemeaning and disconcerting, and]it had cauterized whatever else she might've said. "You'll find that I am an excellent judge of character, Serena, and of intent. It's why I've been chosen for this city; it's why I've managed to subsist in Los Angeles with such scant support from higher echelons of our clan. Unlike so many of our hubris-blind peers, I am able to quickly distinguish my friends from my enemies and mobilize each. So," Sebastian explained, folding his elegant hands and leaning forward conspiratorially against the table. She mimicked the posture, tilting forward, lacing her digits to place them all on a most modest square. "You can trust me when I say that the Anarchs would earn nothing by killing you now, and until they are in a position to profit, they won't. The appeal of that sect rests upon public reputation and youngling recruitment; they put on_ shows_, not tactical strikes, and they will do neither following an event which would assuredly make them murder suspects. Assess this from a dissident's eye. If you were to turn up brutally dead at this point, every Camarilla finger in the county area would point directly at them. They don't want that. They cannot have that, because they know - if they are prudent - that I will advantage the first chance I get to rally a Blood Hunt. It is only good politics."

"Blood Hunt. And if they had... If I hadn't..." She could not finish the coinciding thought. Her belly hurt again. Her hands pressed hard into the ridge of rich, varnished wood.

"Let's not dwell on that," he persuaded, a parental look, a tut of his tongue. Serena swallowed again, but there was nothing to pull down. The Foreman's gums felt like arid dirt. "You're in fine health. But yes, a killed Prince's Childe is a hot-button issue. Perhaps there was a time not so long ago when eliminating an unknown - forgive me for saying so, Ms. Woeburne - descendant of mine might've been appealing, presuming they weren't caught with bloody hands. But the fact you've since done something to rile them, and done so in a public sphere, throws the ball very far out of a smart rebel's court. Anarchists thrive off breaking our laws and none of them are above homicide, but only when there are other suspects - suspects viable enough to impede us in punishing them. Do you understand? Hard as it may be to believe from where you're standing, you are probably safer now than you were before."

"I can appreciate that, Mr. LaCroix, but-"

"Secret ambushes plied in the dead of night are not how they function. And Nines Rodriguez is propped far too high on his laurels to throw neonates into bonfires. Again, no offense meant."

"None taken. But then I don't understand what they would have been aiming at in-"

The Prince reached across his desk to lightly pat her knuckles. It was a terse, affectionate gesture, inspiring more camaraderie than devotion. "Rest, Ms. Woeburne. I am confident we're near the end of it."

Serena forced a wan, grimacing smile that tasted like mothballs. "With every due respect, sir, I think Mr. de Luca might disagree."

LaCroix frowned at this name. "Mr. de Luca was a tragic case of a vine growing faster than its pot," the man insisted, manners darkening, causing smart-Alec Childer to quickly remember their place. "And I would quite like it if we did not speak so lightly of my dead officers. But you could consider your late comrade as a sort of proof. Victor was a commendably dedicated individual. But he was not clever, I'm afraid. That's why I needed you – who are not only dedicated, but so very, very clever."

Sebastian's hand upon hers felt dreadfully heavy atop this carefully rationed praise. Serena looked down at the anemic stack of fingers, saw herself trapped beneath his like a careless mouse with a broken spine. She wished one of them could make it stop quaking. The spastic energy of her limb was an embarrassing thing to be noticed by him. "Mr. de Luca came into my employ via trial-by-fire, and I was thankful to have him. But keep in mind that I _chose_ you. You were selected. You were selected because I was certain you could fulfill a certain set of needs politicians in my position have." The pressure grew incrementally oppressive; it did not conquer her tic. "When I encountered you, Ms. Woeburne, I knew immediately and explicitly that here I could place all my trusts, and that you would not disappoint me. But if you are going to assist me on this field, as seems increasingly likely, I think you should better understand the threat we face, and the appropriate parameters within which people of our station combat it."

"Let me be clear and direct," Mr. LaCroix began, forcing neutrality to overshadow condescension, a tangy and unpleasant set of names pooling on his tongue. "There are two major concerns I have in America, from suburbs to our central city, and I brought you here to help deal with one of them. On one hand, we have Chinatown. The Kuei-Jin are remote and foreign; little can be done about those devils now, and their tentativeness keeps them well enough at bay. The Free-State, however. They are day-to-day hazards, not a long-term threat. They are disorganized but tenacious. And they are growing too inconvenient for me to tolerate any longer. Unlike our visitors from the East, who require diplomacy sport, this is mostly a tit-for-tat intelligence game. Do you understand me? We cannot outright eliminate them, but the Anarchs can and will be kept in-check." It was a promise that guaranteed bloodshed, and as if to punctuate that fact, Sebastian's empty fist tightened against hardwood.

"You don't need to convince me," swore the Ventrue who, two hours ago, had toed very _near the end_ indeed - the end of her life, specifically, at Free-State hands. You could still smell the acrid tang of metal and cinderblock upon her somber clothes. "But I would like to know how I'm expected to help."

"Let me put it this way: I have no doubt this effort can succeed. But in order to make our push as seamless as possible, I could use someone trustworthy behind the scenes. Trustworthiness is not exactly a common commodity in our society. You know that as well as anyone." He gave her forearm a supportive, confiding little jiggle. "And you can help me as you always have: by doing what I ask, doing it sensibly, and doing it well. This is why I trust you. In turn, I ask that _you_ trust I am managing our business well."

"Of course I do. Of course I will," she assured, one of many repetitions, something that seemed to happen when a bureaucrat feels herself begin to sweat. There was no hint of dishonesty; effusive obedience was Ms. Woeburne's default response. You could see he did not like the way her cropped hair bounced with each apprenticelike nod. "This is only my effort to sound out the terrain. You know this is something of an adjustment for me. I'm more accustomed to dealing with snooping Harpies and unhappy guests than Anarchs."

"Yes, I know. I had not intended to embroil you with them at any length, but that looks to be an inevitability. My plans, as I've noted, have had to shift. Still, I think you'll outperform your predecessor," he added, a verbal wink, though one accompanied by no joy. "The anarchy of our decade is mob-mentality. It is ignorant, bored children who rage against the Camarilla because Brujah clinging to old titles agitate them. The whole mess is regrettable." Sebastian frowned now. He had removed his hand from Serena's two, but only after picking them up, turning them over, as though to read loyalty in the lines of her palms. Both sat still where they'd been placed. It made the quaking worse, the arteries more vulnerable; her twitching fingertips were connected to her heart by long, clear cords of deep blood-blue. "Most Anarchs are like so many lemmings. I have no particular hatred for the lot of them. In fact, I can sympathize with the fledglings, who know no better than to follow their louder cousins. The likes of Mr. Rodriguez are dissident powerhouses who prey off their young. But no matter how badly you may feel for them, you don't let wild dogs wander around uncaged. I need to keep them on their toes while I erect our fences, and in light of the circumstances, I see no better way to do so than employing your services."

"I would most definitely say Rodriguez is on his toes," Ms. Woeburne joked, a brittle smile crackling through tensions, throat hitting high notes. One sadly broken stiletto was tapping a frantic samba on the floor. "If that's the goal, think I've already taken care of it. I made great time. Brassy of me, too, nearly getting killed and all…" It was an insolent and overconfident claim to make, even in jest, but humor brings us brief and foolish reprieves. He had built the sticks of her esteem tall with that flattering speech. Yet the woman felt she could've promised close to anything if it would emancipate her captive hands from the scorn of a blue darker than any vein. He said nothing about the obvious tremors. She was not certain if this was a boon or if the pretenses of normalcy made everything worse.

Mr. LaCroix was not smiling. He looked at her hands. Serena could not have hauled them off that desktop if she tried. "You know that I am fond of you, Ms. Woeburne. I would be most disheartened, I think, were something untoward to befall you because you did not listen to what I am saying."

She could feel, yes - feel the oppression of an eye circle the bone of her wrist.

"Any representative of mine will exercise great care in their actions, I am sure. Because, as torchbearers, our clan understands that we must sometimes lend a deaf ear and patronize the rabble. Again, we do not want outright war. We have bigger foes at our borders than Anarchs. What we want is a culling; what we want is a justifiable response that will end the divisiveness in my Domain." Sebastian was staring - starting very thoughtfully at the indentations of her carpals, studying their slopes, yet there was something empty about this interest that invalidated it. She thought unseriously about extracting herself and telling him to stop. They were not Toreador; there was no saccharine to Ventrue; and Serena had spotted this leg of subterfuge immediately for what it was, but the need prove her fealty was worse than any gaze. Those weak wrists rattled now. A car couldn't smash through a good corporal's integrity. Surely he realized; surely he knew her better than that...

"I am always," she swore, a castle of a corpse now, the shaking skeleton that held up her skin. "Always careful."

"I know you are. This is why, when a Barony demands your excuse – they'll want to discern what we're about – you must offer what we'll call our 'sincere apologies,' and you must do it with an expression of patience, with as much authentic concern as you can. Explain that you overreacted. You received bad intelligence. Say whatever you feel is most convincing given your alibi, but keep one thing in mind. The only way they stand to benefit from tonight is if we do not react with the civility expected of us. You must keep a dialogue open. This is your sole task for now. This is what I am so sure you are capable of doing. You understand what I'm saying to you, yes?"

Through some strong, stubborn effort, Serena lifted one hand.

She adjusted her frames, a touch to the face disguised as grooming, a fierce hope the glass hadn't begun to fog up, a vain suspicion her cheeks had morphed five sad shades of crimson. It was a defensive maneuver. Her Sire's scrutiny was becoming unnecessarily difficult, and Serena did not want to meet it any more. "I nearly brought a truck down onto the man," she murmured thinly. "Somehow I don't think he'll be rushing to reconcile." Never mind that parlaying with vengeful Barons seemed like a modernized spin on the ritual suicide order; Sebastian could've suggested just about anything at the moment, and his Childe would go scrambling to do it. Such was the effect of Prince LaCroix's expectations and his strict, terrible charisma. You were not charmed by him, did not like him, did not want to stand close to him. But through arctic eyes you looked back into the weight of a very unforgiving world, and it made you feel like rabbits running under wing shadows.

Ms. Woeburne saw Sebastian's mouth turn downwards, and instantly regretted that comment. Could she have not just echoed "yes?" Why had she sassed? _'Why must I always be so god-damned sarcastic?' _It was like a mental disorder. Of all the witty things a better woman would have said…

Serena stiffened suddenly in the wooden chair. He clenched her hand so hard, arresting it, that the shaking stopped. She stared at the joining point in brain-dead shock. Finger-pads burrowed down where a pulse used to whack through live arteries; Ms. Woeburne did not give a damn about clichés; they were like _ice_.

"I hope you're not implying that I'd let my Childe be leashed to a whipping wagon. When I said the Anarchs would hang themselves by killing you, in no way did I claim they were not dangerous. Do not forget whose outline you have come here to fill. Do not make the same mistake as the young man who held this post before you," he warned, an ominous thing to say, a hindsight made even as black astrolite stain stood stark upon California asphalt. His palm flattened her knuckles into the blacker plane of wood. "Underestimation is more insidious than any bomb. Avoid complacency. Recognize that there is something to be feared in both lawful authority and a barbarian's offers of friendship, or you will find out as many others have that dying men do whatever they have to for another day of life. Nines Rodriguez and the Los Angeles State are no one's friend. Nines Rodriguez is a wolf dying faster than his cause, and he will think nothing of sending the pack into a lion den's to stave that end off another night. Be a ready lion. Is this clear?"

"Yes," she swore. She had nothing else to give.

The Prince released her hand. Serena tugged it back as though she had been scalded.

"It really is a shame about your hair," was all he had left to say. Ms. Woeburne, staring, thought she might be sick.

The intercom opened an awful buzz.

"Yes, Joelle? What is it?" Sebastian demanded, sounding tired. In any other situation, his Childe would've felt gratified to hear such a familiar twinge of ire.

"I have Baron Abrams on the line, monsieur. He says it is urgent."

"Look there. Didn't I tell you, Serena?" Mr. LaCroix took up the phone with an irritated swoop of his arm. He hunkered forward, palm-to-forehead, and prepared to tackle business. "I will have to take this call, of course," Sebastian added when she did not immediately rise. One of his hands covered the idle receiver. "I trust you can show yourself out. Do be more careful in the future, dear girl. And."

"Yes, sir?" the corporal asked, snapping to attention, standing with posture squared.

Sebastian did not notice any of this. Instead, his eyes flicked toward the floor. "Don't walk around like that."

Serena looked down. Her broken left shoe was scorched a bloody brown.


	10. Opening Dialogue

**Opening Dialogue**

Nines Rodriguez hit Ms. Serena Woeburne so hard to the mouth, she spat blood.

"Pick her up," the Baron ordered. Two Anarch strongmen flanking LaCroix's Childe each grabbed a fistful of blazer and hefted the dazed Ventrue to her feet. Serena did not wriggle away from those thick-fingered hands, forgot to struggle and spit. The wobbly Foreman failed to register their pressure and shape in a whirlpool of grime and artificial lamplight. She did not twist or appeal or shout sloppily for help. It wasn't coming. Ms. Woeburne acknowledged this, just as she acknowledged how bizarre the tilt to her world looked now - a world that had been shaken, made watery, and thoroughly confused. Pastel green eyes were crossed, swelling; her smashed glasses lay in a heap at the floor. Her ankles did not work. They held her aloft by each arm. She was only dimly aware of being imprisoned in a basement somewhere.

The Brujah standing opposite Serena was cool and unsympathetic. His arms were crossed, face granite. "Hold her. Look right here, Camarilla. Head up. Look me right in the eye - and if you can't, you can follow the sound of my voice. Because I want to make _sure_ you've heard this clear." She couldn't see much of anything at the moment; the last contusion was too fresh. Ms. Woeburne made a vague effort to lift her heavy neck. It changed nothing. The man before her was a blur of cold colors and imminent threats. His words were dimmed by the ringing of blunt impact. She could only tell that he was much too close. "You're a fresh arrival - I understand - so allow me to give you some pro-bono advice. I strongly recommend that you do not fuck with me," Rodriguez gritted out, pitch stinging, posture defensive. Serena could not appreciate how self-protection clashed with projected brutality - how these two traits fought in every claim downtown's Baron made; every blow he dealt; every way he stood, boots sunk even and chin angled towards chest. Bristling stances menaced, but they also guarded his throat. Hers was too far away to worry about right now. She tried to gulp, but it felt like nothing at all.

Someone's hand cuffed gruffly beneath her jaw, bumped it upright, clacked teeth within. The Ventrue retracted. She had not noticed her head beginning to slump. "I said look at me, snake. You take a real good look before you decide on lying to me again. Tell me how much patience you think I got left for you." It was the last thing Serena wanted to do, and she was sure another slap was coming the instant her eye connected, but his reasons were evident even through the woolly glaze. Anarchs did not forgive humiliations or wounds. Most of their high-speed encounter had already healed, thanks to the restorative properties of Kindred genetics - yet there was still a long, pink scar still that lingered down his left forearm. The signs of her damage gave Ms. Woeburne a small smidgen of satisfaction. She focused on that line of half-bleached flesh. "Now, I'll ask nicely one more time. Who called the hit on me?"

But things had been going so awfully well.

And that was exactly why Serena should have known better. The stale, uneventful nothingness of those five nights between leaving Prince LaCroix's offices intact and this horrid evening had been too ordinary to be authentic. She'd buzzed along merrily enough, menial tasks and wire-taps, relatively unapproached. No one called her. No one introduced her. No one had left dire messages or public requests blinking on the answerphone during late work hours. There wasn't much need to commingle with company that might endanger an administrator's Childe; no mysterious orders dragged her through risky alleys, highlighted her name, or flicked spotlights towards a hitherto private servant. Subdued, professional blood dolls were sent to the fledgling's doorstep regularly. A tidy regiment of ghouls was made available for her more mundane errand-running. Venture Tower was serene black marble and guarded well. A more ambitious creature might have been annoyed with being sidelined, but rather than letting the yellow tape irritate, Prince LaCroix's assistant preferred this industrious shape of life. Ms. Woeburne was just beginning to feel secure again, as though a nice niche had been carved into Sebastian's Los Angeles Plan – quiet, orderly, all for herself.

Serena's apartment was a compact but attractive diplomatic suite on floor three of the Empire Arms Hotel. It came furnished in warm, moneyed hues and wood stain, paid through the next three months by a hefty LaCroix Foundation check. Joelle had truthfully done well in booking the place, though Ms. Woeburne chose to thank her detached benefactor over his micromanaging assistant. A lava-looking Cézanne print hung over the den fireplace, gray carpets steam-vacuumed and spotless. A dark dining hall centered around one menacing red table more at home in law schools than under silverware. The kitchen was enameled in bleak stone, tiled black bathroom clad in intimidating glass, and she even had a charity-case Caitiff doing her housework. Sweet girl – pretty, unpretentious, freckled girl – who wore no makeup and went only by "Lily." Hindsight was useless, especially this kind, but Serena hoped she hadn't been made collateral damage tonight.

_But I couldn't; but I didn't; but I wasn't_ - the Mantra of But meant nothing more here than it had in the penthouse of Sebastian LaCroix.

Cracked lips pulled into a grimace as their owner tasted her own blood. The last blow had clapped Ms. Woeburne's canines into her tongue, slicing it cleanly down one side. Telltale copper slipped out, acidic, unpleasant and fearful. Swelling gums, throbbing jowl, teeth uncertain of where they ought to fall in a mouth flooding faster than she could swallow. Simply _talking_ now stung like a bitch, and Serena searched blearily for words, not sure they ought to come at all.

"For the last time – the _last_ time: I am NOT lying. Not about this. About anything. Everything I told you – everything is true," she insisted, credibility somewhat damaged by the woman's clogged sinuses. They stretched her syllables out of proportion; they made her drums rattle deep within a foggy head. (Could vampires sustain a proper concussion? The Prince's Childe did not know to worry, but imagined she would find out plenty soon enough.) "There was no 'hit.' It was a mistake. A _mistake_. I had... bad intelligence" was the phrase that stuck out in her memory.

Two brown, blockish palms hefted under the Ventrue's armpits as though to throw her across their room - _wouldn't have been the first time_ - but Rodriguez held up a hand. The ghost of Serena's heart rose and sank within the clutch of its gullet. There was no opportunity to really be relieved; Baron LA's lieutenant dropped Woeburne's heels back to the tile, a thump that somehow hurt in her hips, and his preparatory grip loosened. It jarred her. Dull stress ricocheted from the soles of her feet to disperse throughout several miscellaneous injuries they'd already dealt.

She blinked as hard as she could to clear the haze. She stumbled backwards like a sloppy rag-doll when those same fists released, and stumbled again when they pushed roughly against the planes of her back, correcting force, allowing the officer to stand upright. Self-preservation found balance before that knock propelled her too far forward. Tortured vision couldn't be relied upon, forms curling upon and doubling themselves, but her mind still knew that _toward_ Nines Rodriguez was not the direction it wanted to go. She staggered, caught in the interim between alpha and beta. It felt as though someone had switched her insides for water. Ms. Woeburne's knees were freezing in the stark space of that basement.

"Let her talk," was all he said. She didn't think she could see.

"Listen. If you'll just listen. Check my story; it shouldn't be difficult. This - this all is needless. _Pointless_. You can go through my phone history. Contact Venture Tower. That should account for what happened. You could've already done so; you don't need to hold me here; there's just no reason for it." Adrenaline mingled with pain and the mix was making her punchy, brazenly babbling off. She tottered there woozily for a moment unsupported. It felt like something was grinding marrow just beneath the place where spine met skull. Brujah captors were not accommodating. "I don't think you know what you're-"

Rodriguez's palm connected with her jawbone again before the sentence closed. A large, embarrassing splatter of blood exploded from Serena's nose and saturated cream-colored fabric. Unfriendly fingers somewhere back-behind caught her before the floor did. She saw stars.

"Try harder, Camarilla," the Baron said.

Ms. Woeburne closed both eyes and tried to imagine herself in a warm maplewood parlor five thousand miles away.

Age dismissed, experience notwithstanding, historical knowledge on the Free-State movement swept underneath an empire's rug, the implications of this disaster were manifold and apparent enough. It was not difficult to surmise how one might benefit from a signed statement incriminating Prince LA for attempted murder. For all their anti-establishment chants against the inherent corruption of organized government, these hypocrites were quick to point fingers before a magistrate's stand. Framing Sebastian LaCroix by pummeling his officer into an erroneous admission certainly _seemed_ to qualify as crooked politics, but – behold! – they were happy pitching democratic morals out a window for potential territorial gain. She might have managed a sore, spiteful laugh had the Brujah not just split a fat fissure right down the left side of Serena's bottom lip.

"Let me ask _you_ a question. What—" She turned her head to pitifully spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor. It rolled down white linoleum and towards the single drain. "What do you _want_ to hear, then? You clearly have something in mind," the neonate suggested, hackles rising, bearing fangs. _Typical Ventrue hot-air._ Skelter's fists sunk deeper into her collar. The senior guard, a scraggled and malicious man in scuffed leather, was watching this hideous scene nonchalantly from the far (only) door. Spiderwebs clustered above him, a spindly shadow on musty gray paint; there was no other sign of life in the tight, dark, echoing room. "So let's have it; and he can nod my head _yes, sir;_ and we could end this useless interrogation so _you_ could tell _us_ what business you had stalking the Childe of your Prince. That stands to solve both our questions. Unless the answer you want is the one you'd have to give. Unless _that_'s the problem. Unless you're where the intelligence went bad, because you were hoping to shoot me in the back of the-"

Serena got out more of this cartwheeling scheme than she'd thought.

Ms. Woeburne probably would've been exasperated with herself had she been fully lucid. Breakneck accusations and venom were not wise routes to surviving interrogation. Then again, it was not as though being wise had protected her from Nines Rodriguez or the metal on his fists. It was not as though her verbal attacks were unjust or more provocative than the cards he'd already played. No, the Anarch had sent some capped goons to drag this woman here, shone a flashlight in her dilated eyes, and begun a brutal cross-examination. At first she had been polite: downcast, excessively businesslike, subservient and willing to cooperate. Now, however – after civil bargaining won nothing but more violence – the thoroughly trampled captive figured screeching flack wasn't hurting her chances of survival.

Oh, she could've pleaded for mercy... cried for her Sire, made a big teary fuss, sworn on fledgling ignorance. Was Rodriguez's popular reputation halfway accurate, such flimsy, flattering ploys may have worked to the tune of a less gory death. Serena found her chances unsatisfying. The Foreman was having none of that apologist rot; if a Ventrue must die, and at her enemy's hands, at the very least she would zing her last line.

Nines's blow was all knuckles this time; cruel indentations from his rings whipped into her face. They spread searing warmth across Ms. Woeburne's cheeks like firelight, the nonspecific pain making Mr. LaCroix's earlier promise of "you will be fine" taste like salt. _'On second thought, make that 'bullshit'.'_

Ms. Woeburne was a bit upset with Mr. LaCroix at present.

Then again, she had not been sent into the wolves' cove (or this filthy little room) on Sebastian's instruction tonight. The Prince had offered advice only in the event his Childe might end up in a political tête-à-tête with Isaac Abrams (unlikely) or Mr. Rodriguez (evidently more likely). He had perhaps not anticipated the latter's cronies would burst into Serena's bathroom early one morning, throw a sack over her head, huck the flailing vampire into a jalopy and drive off for this unadvertised torture chamber. There had been no opportunity to escape – barely to react, flailing for a viable weapon and twisting her neck away from that strange, suffocating hand. There was no indicator that might've helped locate her. Who knew if they were still in California at all? Car wrecks, suspicious activity or stolen files… which would have hurled this sad story into motion fastest? Somehow – somewhere in that bumpy intermission spent tied up and blindfolded in a lightless Anarch trunk – the unthinkable had started feeling like the inevitable.

And hence, here she was: half-dressed, belly-down, choking, staring at the steel toes of Nines Rodriguez's boots.

"Pick her up," he said again. The assisting strong-arm did as told without comment. Serena – whose skull whirled mightily after that last punch – ceased to even realize she'd connected with the floor.

"Get your hands off me, you miserable fucker," the Foreman slurred, hands-and-knees. All four slipped out from under her in the scattered claret of Ventrue plasma, palms splayed out, queasy gut and aching ribs smacking that badly-laid tile. Never mind her pathetic bodily condition; the weak language was enough to reveal how desperate Ms. Woeburne – so grammatically trimmed, so self-censoring, so _correct –_ was beneath other words, better words, words more intelligent and, perhaps, more pointless.

Was that a dollop of _spit_ that landed on her blouse? Her own spit? This was just insulting.

From the back of that horrible truck, Serena had assumed – kidnappers being Anarchs, after all – they would simply kill her. Don't mistake realism for fatalism; she certainly regretted this turn of events, particularly if it meant missing the elusive vacation meandering her daydreams since London faded into ocean fog. (One's thoughts wandered to inane places after six-or-so wallop to the brain-plate.) What most disappointed Ms. Woeburne was the aimlessness of this particular death, especially for an Elder's progeny. Every Camarilla agent acknowledged the possibility of random elimination by dissenters, of course, but you hoped for something flashier than a tacky degenerate's cellar, brass knuckles and a tarnished sewer grate. This whole place smacked distastefully of Bolshevik. It smelled like rust, steam and leaking pipes. If they were going to chop off her head, Serena remembered thinking - a moment of madness since sanity frightened - they may as well hurry up and do it.

When Nines Rodriguez walked in thirty minutes ago, alive as he was coolly vengeful, it became apparent to Ms. Woeburne that she was in… what was a nice, folksy Brujah turn of phrase? Here is one: s_erious shit._

Skelter landed a thoughtful kick of encouragement just beneath Serena's liver, flipping the blueblood onto her back. Retaliation was hawking a mouthful of pink saliva where she imagined his face might be. It wasn't clear if the makeshift missile actually made contact, but there was one loud fire of laughter from that door-lurker – who might've been Smiling Jack, though those Anarch dossiers were a nebulous blur – followed by a litany of curses. Someone grabbed Ms. Woeburne by the scruff of her high-necked top and deposited the Ventrue into a folding chair. They were neither gentle nor kind. Serena's legs bent like snapped cigarettes. Both feet were frigid, sockless; her pumps were sitting in the hallway, had just been kicked off when a masked abductor hit from behind. She struggled to focus on the ten periwinkle toenails left behind. That sugar-sweet color filled her with sudden, ridiculous, suffocating regret. Whoever dies with purple toenails? Whoever dies with her shoes downtown in a spotless carpet, with her tongue bitten, with arrogant humor mincing up the sick dark _crush_ of her fear...?

Serena was afraid of dying, yes – doubly terrified of what, if anything, lurked afterwards for someone like her. But she would not lower herself to acknowledge fear of Nines Rodriguez. There was something so uncomplicated about the Anarch that it provoked in her a blazing contempt; his false candor and basic character should not have posed any danger to monarchical men like Prince LaCroix. It was not a fairytale fable in coastal California. Brujah ought to be impotent mutts, failed heroes; erroneous, passion-stricken Pilates, stupid with anger, puffed-up by people's love, who rose their fists but couldn't figure out where to throw them. They marched and they died and they were replaced until there was no one left large enough to keep on marching. Little marching shook down the streets of Los Angeles these nights. And yet here still stood the biggest lingering pest to realizing their West Coast goals: alive, careful, craftier than crazed. In a ratty basement, unattended, knuckles bruising from application to the face of a Prince's Childe.

Nines Rodriguez looked as though he had been born for the sake of a sinking city. There was about the Baron a sort of honest virility, a laborer's sense of severity. He was a product of the steelwork, asphalt, and the gasoline-leather-aftershave aroma of proletariat as much as he was a mother's womb and Troile's jealousy. Being hit by him was like hitting your face on the tarmac of Detroit or Sacramento, and his hands hit harder than either - harder than made sense, than a Ventrue could feel. She kept watching the way he tossed her blood from his fingers like its color offended him. Status destruction; hate-the-rich; precious waste; droplets would scatter the ground. Considering she might owe a great grudge – considering her teeth clenched tightly enough to trap treason – considering the remote, distant possibility that she ever left this terrible room alive – Ms. Woeburne took the opportunity to remember. Her blood withered into the floor. She would never forget.

Never is powerful. Sworn when meant, never does not die - not when she tried to, not when she wanted to, not when she would distill nights and then years and wait to give verdicts without that image threatening her mind in the dark. Ruling blood on a nothing-king's fist. Her prophecy would savagely, monstrously last. The hatred of Ventrue is cursed to never forget.

Ancillae can recognize the reek of Presence. It wasn't difficult to split the fine lines; look closely, and you could see a dozen marks, a love more potent than it should be, a rage made worse. Clan differences were only varieties of one black root. The idea here was not a warmonger to swear by, but something attainable: a household saint, an ideal sold to younger blood, a political totem represent what lesser ones could not. This was a careful construction of what you, too, could be - if, and only if, you were willing to follow. Here was your Anarchy: a Baron who fashioned himself like a friend. Yet there was a very specific type of toxin beneath that true blue brother veneer. You could see the wrongness in how he didn't shout. You could see it in the swift, silver, sidelong glance of a man who planned his next move.

If you were to ask Ms. Woeburne's professional opinion: wretchedly Hemingway, and wretchedly awful.

Of course, there was the fact that all this had occurred to Serena roundabout the same moment he'd landed a roundhouse punch directly into the side of her skull. Maybe head trauma had something to do with being so bitterly underwhelmed.

And here is what Serena Madison, Childe of Prince LaCroix, would deduce about American Anarchs:

Sebastian pretended not to take the Rabble threat seriously. He certainly did not believe their so-called _cause_ could support itself, let alone a bustling Los Angeles – but her Sire was also grievously aware of the risks in ousting Brujah Barons. The deseated chief of this district became about two-hundred times more hazardous to Camarilla endeavors once Prince LaCroix officially cast off his crown. Their particular trouble with Nines Rodriguez was that he turned the nature of the Free-State threat into something less visceral than it generally was, waging war through subversion rather than outright sieges. Riotous rebels were easily prosecuted and put down like the gutter-dogs they were, but devotion was a harder-fought battle; it roared instead along street-sides, through courtroom spats, shifting ranks with each public spectacle. And here is where an Anarch speaker becomes a scourge.

Mr. LaCroix delegated through the satiation of ambition, provocation of worries and demands for conformity; his well-schooled soldiers respected ruling right, but were ultimately the same self-serving sycophants common to any junta, any cabal. When push came to shove, he trusted very few. Meanwhile, Nines's people might've been a ragtag collection of malcontents and strays, but they venerated him like a messiah. No elected lawman, no matter how great, ignores a man who can lead without titles.

And here was the problem therein: an enemy dynamic enough to persuade power, but smart enough to know when to withhold it.

It made this an annoying game of attrition. The Prince actively called order whilst his adversary lay back, preached through silence, and bided sweet time. Sebastian knew the Anarchs would not fritter their budding army away by striking on him directly – not yet, when all Camarilla victory required was a single approved Blood Hunt. As it was, however, Mr. LaCroix could not legally execute "passive" detractors without heading for someone's chopping-block, himself. The result was an uneasy guerilla battle of cloak-and-dagger killings and bureaucratic posturing.

Baron Abrams did not scare the Prince. He was egotistic, civilized, and Toreador vain – familiar traits to which LaCroix played an excellent matador. _"Let them have Hollywood,"_ Ms. Woeburne recalled him snorting during a telephone conversation last year. _"If those libertines freely choose to box themselves, so much the better for me." _Downtown was a different field. Just this past month, four operatives – Victor de Luca, two Gangrel scouts, and one startling Tremere – had dropped off their organization's radar, with only the first turning up dead. Someone had reported the others missing. Someone else had supposedly seen the Apprentice alive; she was carrying firearms; she was not answering to her birthname anymore.

This made Sebastian very, very nervous.

So, yes. Ms. Woeburne knew that, as a Ventrue, you will never win real mercy from a Brujah who'd no chance of or interest in shepherding you. Appearances and overtures do not matter; she'd been trained to understand this fundamental rule as a byproduct of working for Mr. LaCroix. She had been a bit less prepared for the hello beating, though. Still, it was a slap on the wrist, Serena swore. Tonight measured nothing against what her vengeful Sire would surely do when _he_ found out – her loss would provide him with he ammunition a Prince needs, more than was necessary, enough to shoot back – and in so many inelegant words, she told them so.

"_He_ ain't here. And I am." Rodriguez had a switchblade from a coat pocket in his hand. "And you are."

Cobwebs, clamor, blue blood in hail on the floor. Ms. Woeburne's everything burned.

"So I wish you'd come around," the Baron went on, head shaking, a taunt in disguise as a sigh. That deceptive face was wearing what seemed to be an expression of mild apology, of having life outside this graveyard room, of being somebody's beloved. There was a dull, distinctive bell tolling in the deep recesses of her skull. There were another man's hands oppressing heavy on either side of her head. "Really I do. But if you're not going to talk, I got no other options, and that's where this is going."

Serena scowled. You needed two for a game of Good Cop/Bad Cop; you oughtn't spin sympathies on a prisoner you've already hurt; you do not use words to manipulate a Ventrue. "If you're going to make threats," she snapped - every pause was a wet, vermillion wheeze. "Then make them. Don't waste time being my friend."

"I'm not threatening. I'm telling," Nines said, casual as a thug with a knife in his hand can be. "What happens next is on you, blueblood." He held out the weapon in the crease of one palm. "Think about it."

Her back was unflinchingly straight. Tired arm muscles flexed against cheap, frigid furniture, anxiety boldening the veins inside. There was a screw biting at her back. She swallowed. She pursed the hard, thin ledge of her lips. That stainless steel soaked lamplight and it heralded something like an end.

Ms. Woeburne cleared the phlegm from her throat. She thought about it.

"Fuck you," she said - calmly, quietly, enunciation perfect as blood ran through the spaces between her teeth.

Irrevocable mistake; bitch thing to say, but you had to admire the reserve that it took. Sebastian LaCroix did not humor invertebrates. Scarlet drying both corners of her mouth, there still roared a fierce ember of the old tyrant in Serena Woeburne's bloodshot eyes - an ironic spark of indignation and sanguine, maniac entitlement. She put up a good fight for her age and shitty circumstances. That _look_ left no doubt, though: an autocrat, a silhouette in a stoplight camera snapshot sitting on Baron LA's kitchen table. It was a look he knew – a little put off, a little smug, a little disconnected. Like she couldn't be fucking bothered_. _Like she'd stomp some poor, pathetic kid's throat, while complaining her paycheck didn't cover exterminations.

Nines hated that look.

He landed a terse closed blow to the woman's solar plexus. Serena doubled like a folding easel.

"Not smart, Princess. Pretty goddamn dumb." Rodriguez took a step back. It was a useless insult; the unexpected sun-star of pain distorted whatever he'd said, and she tried valiantly to batten-down last night's dinner. The Ventrue's nostrils streamed scarlet; it plinked upon her skirt and stained drab, official beige. She didn't have enough left in her to vomit, so Woeburne spat instead, knowing her throat was foaming. Her body badly needed to sweat. Because it could not burn the blood, a growl would have to do - a dejected sound, some disgusting and pitiable mewl scraped from the depths. Those soldier's mitts grabbed her shoulders and pulled them back upright before she could slip too far forward; Serena could not turn to see the face above them, a Gangrel scent, bronze divided by a scar. His thick hands were like oak bark. The dig of Rodriguez's fist into her abdomen left a ghost of itself behind. She could still feel an imprint of knuckles. She had never been trounced so badly in the many coldblooded years of her life.

"You don't know me. So let me make something unmistakably clear to you, bitch," the Anarch said, taking knee, snapping his knife from its spring six inches from Ms. Woeburne's nose to show it to her. Muted light pirouetted along steel; scattered their unfurnished floor; leapt to his jaw; traced her own collarbone. It was a grim sort of beauty. Blood vessels thwacked beneath her temples. The blade gave a dour, murderous '_snick_.' "I don't make threats. I make promises. And I promise this: if I don't get a name and a reason, you won't get a chance. You are not real important to this city. Talking is all you have; you don't talk, you lose that importance, and then you are nothing to LA. Then you ain't some-body no more. And you are just a body to me."

He took the knife, and he proved its sharpness on the meaningless place between her finger and thumb. Blood welled in the hinge. She felt it like an illness and a sear and couldn't move. Iron ore. Blood scattered. Nothingness. Electricity.

Something _monstrous_.

The last voice she heard was Smiling Jack's. "Ah, boy. Now you went and pissed her-"

Something monstrous switched Serena Woeburne off.

Agony dropped into catatonia. Articulate superiority collapsed upon itself. Pupils contracted, dark hair splayed wildly. It was as though a feral node popped within the vilest corner of her brain. In a matter of seconds, she had turned tempestuous, wolf-eyed. Her lips peeled back to filmy white fang and that prehistoric sound prickled the fine hairs on everyone's neck.

Nothing, never, a thousand years of biological hate.

The frenzied Ventrue lunged forward, world red. There was a rip and a warm tear and a stout, angry scream. A thing clattered. Teeth clacked together in the cold air inches from Rodriguez's jugular.

It had happened so quickly that, for a moment, Serena thought she was dead.

Then there were hands at her neck, claws beneath her chin; there was nothing to see, pounded by light; there was a maggot of rancor incubating tightly in her gut, worms nudging ribs. Brujah blood lit like a struck match in this stale air. _She would be sick._ She would be sick, choke on hurts she could no longer feel, puke herself bloodless. Fever bucked off instinct. It was a puncture, a nail right in the panic she'd felt; it evaporated her delirium. Colors swirled into a surreal, carnival horror. The vampire was dully aware of being slammed prostrate onto a wall, tailbone shrieking as it connected with plaster, hair wrapped into a boxer's fist. The shock crumbled her Frenzy. Serena's lids were rheumy and squeezed themselves shut before they could recover, before they let her see. She was going to die – this was it; she was going to _die_! – but Ms. Woeburne would not grant them the terror in the bottle-glass of her eyes.

Jack was grinning up at her, suspending the Ventrue with a kneecap to the abdomen and one hand tangled in sticky brunette.

"Aw, ain't that pwecious?" he clucked, lips puckered, cruel entertainment. Two punishing fingers snatched a flap of round cheek and gave it one sadistic, belittling shake. The Foreman couldn't resist; she flashed a baleful grimace, horror pushing ice-water through every organ. Smiling Jack had intercepted and subdued her without so much as batting an eyelash. She writhed and groped uselessly. His coarse chuckles sounded like a revving motorbike. He smelled like cigar smoke. The switchblade was throbbing in Skelter's thigh. "Heh-heh-heh-heh! Lookie here, fellas! We got a live one."

Nines Rodriguez stood still across the room – pale, solitary, a line of skin open along the bone of his chest.

Skelter, hardly still or entertained, pulled out the knife and threw it aside. The lieutenant was all twitching horsepower and gloom. Capillaries stood out upon massive forearms; bright, thorny eyes broiled, gone wide with furor. She stared runny and resentful down the brackish 'O' of his unsheathed handgun. He would have shot her had not Jack stepped in and grabbed the berserk Camarilla child.

"I see that," the Gangrel seethed; precise, barked speech was at alarming odds with wrath. A large splotch soaked the jeans over his stabbing. The blade waited on unclean linoleum until someone picked it up. "Maybe we should take care of this right now. Maybe knock every one of those teeth out of that head." Four loping steps, and a flow began from the neat hole she'd put there. You could smell the wilderness of that injury, of its owner, overwriting the earlier scent. This time, Ms. Woeburne could not deny her cresting fear. "I'm thinking we do something special with them. String 'em on a necklace and send it to her tower-"

"SETTLE DOWN." The boom had come from Nines. It was a dark, terrible shade on his shirt that made her barren stomach retch hungrily; he covered his cut with his left hand. Skelter withdrew. Jack carelessly dropped Ms. Woeburne in an ugly heap of limbs. She launched into a coughing fit that tasted like lead and came up scarlet.

They all watched her coil – the shovel-flatted rattlesnake on their basement floor – three faces a lopsided tableau of furious, spooked and amused.

"Leave her," the Baron said, and Serena could scarcely believe her swimming mind hadn't simply made that up. She lay unmoving on the sadly overlapped tile. "We're not getting anything more tonight; kid's out of her goddamn mind. Lock the place down. Give her a drink. One drink. Have a guard posted at this door early tomorrow - and for Christ's sake, don't let Damsel volunteer."

With these short orders, Rodriguez's men followed-through and departed; the light bulbs were unscrewed, the troops were unquestioning, a viscous bag of blood was flopped fishlike on the floor. It went untouched. They left with the scrape of bars and the slam of a single door.

Ms. Woeburne did not stir - let it close upon her like a coffin.


	11. Lockdown

**Lockdown **

When the Ventrue sleeps, she dreams.

It is a natural process. The human mind – left to wander in dark, stagnant passages – retreats into itself. Beta waves fold into strange angel cake, subconscious possibilities, transient batter. Memories are like crop-dust. Where other animals might curl into quiet corners and rest, thoughts dimming, a young vampire cannot separate itself from every mortal vestige of life. They still wonder; they still dream. Like most children, these are predators beleaguered nightly: unvoiced fears, horrendous nightmares, vague recollections colder than ocean ice.

Serena had been a lion sunk to her knees in hot sand when she awoke suddenly, violently, digging scratches in the linoleum. Darkness stirred immediately with her. Silence swept; chilly, stale air bristled bare skin. _Pain_ was the most impressive arrival, however; it returned long before the neonate's eyesight adjusted to this unpunctured black, shades of muscle ache, scabs, and a deeply-felt, shuddering hunger. Sebastian LaCroix's Childe was not used to being hungry. Odd burbles matured into an insidious rumble beneath the woman's hollow belly, and as of now, it frightened more than it hurt.

Serena's fingers absently fumbled for the blood bag they'd left her. Its contents had gone sluggish and lukewarm, unappetizing fare worsened by room temperature. Her shaking hands, nails broken at the quick, wouldn't behave; after several unsuccessful tries, Ms. Woeburne smothered what pride she'd saved and simply bit into the squelching thing. Sharp teeth ripped plastic, cut artificial skin. The brief chemical flavor of hospital washed her taste buds – and then, _finally_, relief – leaking, sliding over gums, disappearing down her throat in covetous gulps. The familiarity of eating made Serena sloppily overeager; a spill escaped, spattering already stained lapels. The vampire wiped it up as best she could, gathering droplets in a fine line upon her pointer finger and sucking it clean. Gluttony felt shameful, even in private, but she had no way of knowing how frequently Anarch jailors fed their prisoners, let alone the obstinate ones. Perhaps not at all. Perhaps they might simply kill her, first.

'_How long have I been here?' _It scared Ms. Woeburne to be not entirely sure. She might've slept a few exhausted hours; then again, hours easily turned to days. Time spiraled to mush in a cage, blurring as only the oldest monsters and captive tigers knew. Serena had very few indicators as to how long they'd kept her hostage apart from the woulds – unhealed abrasions, sore thumb, a dreadfully swollen face. _'Ah, yes,' _she thought, tonguing the insides of both cheeks, feeling how bulbous they still were. _'Black eyes as a prison calendar. There's a story. There's a novel application.'  
_

Ms. Woeburne gingerly explored her features, grimacing at every notch and crust. Fingerpads traced cheekbones, jowl, chin, searching for memories… indeed, _there_ were the outlines of Rodriguez's rings, right where he'd kindly left them yesterday. One eye had nearly bloated shut, lashes glued together. All her teeth seemed safely in-place, though the lips around them had thrice been split. Blood-slick hair dried in coarse, sooty reels; grim brunette looked more like jet. A sizeable, stinging bump along the bridge of her snout suggested it had snapped. Pressing upon this hard protrusion brought sharp life to Serena's tear ducts, though, and so she abandoned further investigation.

Someone – probably not Nines Rodriguez, himself – but _someone_ was going to pay through the goddamn nose for this.

Ms. Woeburne clumsily unbuttoned her shirt and brassiere in a careful hunt for broken ribs. Firm touches were very unpleasant. But, ultimately finding no gore, the paper complexion of dead skin vanished quickly beneath darkness. While she needn't worry about quality respiration, per se, the Foreman had heard impaled lungs smarted like a bitch. Her torso was certainly bruised, but mottled yellow patches and tender muscle were leagues preferable to wheezing blood. Or stretching over and wrenching a jagged, splintery 'c' of bone directly through one side. The image set her face to horror.

As did the sudden wild thought that – while well-enough alone in this dreadful little cave – there was nothing guaranteeing they had no cameras trained on her. Ms. Woeburne cussed under her breath, jostling painfully back into bra-and-blouse. She supposed her captors could've simply stripped their new parlor partridge down if desiring to do so. But Serena soon found that neither this knowledge – nor this new life – alleviated every petty modesty, particularly corporeal ones. Undeath was hard on the female body. Not to mention the political embarrassment, which wasn't worth thinking about, in kine or Kindred state. _'Topless Ventrue in the Dark' _– now there was a YouTube upload to die for. It was all she needed, to be sure: a half-nude leap from kidnapee to inside joke. _'If the Nosferatu ever got their hands on...' _

But it wasn't worth thinking about, and Serena probably wouldn't care if she was dead.

The officer had hovered between confidence and panic in regards to Sebastian's eventual response. Heaven help them once her Sire discovered what became of his protégé, said protégé decided – and while Ms. Woeburne entertained no delusions of Mr. LaCroix dashing to her rescue, the language of Blood Hunts encouraged. Maybe he would see fit to send their bloodthirsty behemoth of a Sheriff. That monstrous creature hit like a tank, and had torn through his fair share of company enemies since Sebastian's inauguration here. Yet this was all assuming someone took timely note of her abduction. It was quite possible Serena might die here long before the Camarilla mounted a recovery effort. My God – what if she was never found, her pedigree (ashes) swept under some tattered rug in an Anarch bar? With neither the victim's testimony nor corpse as proof, Rodriguez was in a position to lie however he liked; absent concrete evidence, Los Angeles could make no motion against him, and declare no price for his head

They would never release her from this place.

Serena might have hyperventilated had she still required oxygen – and almost felt herself begin to cry – but instead, she was interrupted by a moonlit crack through the dismal door. In this tightly-packed pitch, it was blinding.

Kent-Alan Ryan's shaggy blond mug peered around the entrance, eyes flame-brown and framing a question. There was a tinge of embarrassment in his laidback, cautious, insubstantial tone. "Hello, missus...?" A lanky hand swept through the hair to his shoulders, made it awkwardly fall. "You still kickin' in there, Cam?"

His nose crinkled guiltily at the squinting Ventrue, who buried her overwhelmed face in an arm. Dilated pupils seared under the sudden blast of light. Sight staggering, she couldn't make out this young man – did not recognize the amiable voice. But Serena scented Toreador surely as she detected the sterile twang of prepackaged blood. It slapped loudly on the ground, red contents sloshing within their bag like a wineskin. She tore both eyes away from her elbow stare at this peace offering, vision slowly clearing, until the Anarch removed a bulb from his blazer pocket. Two twists, and their basement was bathed in mellow, unclean white.

Brow flung into the crook of one arm, Ms. Woeburne greeted him with an unfriendly growl.

"Oh, right. Oops. Sorry about that," Playboy murmured, semi-sincere. Deft fingers retracted from the socket. Each step he took across this dreadful room had a sort of rolling, drifter's curve to it; his kneecaps were bent and supple like this season's favorite rookie. "Don't mind me – I'm just here to mop up. Boss said to bring you breakfast. The light was all my idea, though. You can thank me some other time." Kent-Alan gave her an unlikely snerk from one side of his lopsided grin. Had she not been burrowed in a sleeve and aching from every hemisphere, Serena might've slapped off that untailored schoolboy's snotty nose. Fortunately, she was also not amiss to the pistol handle jutting from his right pant leg.

"Get out," Ms. Woeburne spat, haunches shivering. The green of her eyes adopted a toxic, cougarish shade, peeking over their barrier of forearm.

"Rude." The Anarch's tongue clucked his upper palate. Kent-Alan shoved both hands into a weathered corduroy jacket and blinked at her. "How's your face, Cam?"

Serena bared her teeth in response. The Ventrue suspected this sing-song warden, making a show of acting casual, had been instructed to judge how fit their P.O.W. looked for another beating session. She wouldn't grant him the ease of her cooperation. Focusing was becoming difficult, however – let alone posturing – with the blood pouch so close at hand. Rivulets strained through a needle-poked cork. Weak grade, of course, but still edible. It smelled like door-to-door insurance salesman.

Playboy smacked his lips, then shrugged helplessly. "Point taken. Ah, well. It is what it is, I suppose." A tired, apologetic sigh. "Guess that's all my business here. Boss'll probably be by in a day or two. I'd tell you things would be a hell of a lot less uncomfortable if you'd just play along, but from the way I figure, it'd just be blowing my breath. Try not to die before then, eh?"

"GET OUT."

The banished neonate lifted up both palms to retreat. He didn't hurry. "Fine – you don't have to scream," Kent-Alan informed her, giving a mocking, insolent bow. "Suppose this is farewell for now, fair cruelty!"

She watched the mane of salty yellow hair disappear – watched its carefree, jackrabbit bob – and made a feral self-promise to kill him first.

'_Two more days. Two more days, and already I'm like to be put down.' _It was a disgraceful, torturous thought. For now, Serena closed her freewheeling mind, locked away the unproductive fantasies; she stood up in flickering lamplight, dusting both badly bruised knees. Sensory deprivation, starvation and small favors were common tactics. Better to sleep, perhaps… presuming she could sleep anymore. Her peace was disquiet, rest ruined by resentment and the snipping of a tomorrow that promised to get worse. What purpose would resting serve - healing injuries just to have them remade? It was not as though she'd much prospect of a future. Rescue hopes blossomed in a cell like morning glories, short lived and equally fragile. The woman pushed all the air from her lungs and sat in a corner to shake some more. It was a dismal, deathly sound.

_'Awful. Completely awful,' _she lamented. Awful to be so pathetic, to have feet so dirty, nails still purple as a teenage summer. Her toes were over a metal grate that could've fallen from war stories, the place where all your death mess funneled away. There was no room, no way to fit through, a route to freedom suitable for piss and cruor alone. It smelled of rainwater, of a dark place. She did not want to touch it or see. _'I suppose I can't get it open, anyway. Maybe if I had a bit of metal... a bit flat enough. A stick, something? At least it might be sharp._' Sharp enough to use the circlet on her throat? Certainly a messy suicide scenario, but with so few options available, would it not be preferable to death-by-Anarch?

_'No, no, no. Too ignoble an act,' _Ms. Woeburne concluded, rolling her one good eye at the ruling-class bout of dramatics. Sewer-drain! What a putrid load of rubbish. The thing was tetanus-ridden, no doubt, and beyond that:_ 'What would Sebastian think of me?'_

Would he much care?

The prospect of her own insignificance was too horrid to be faced – not from within an icebox. She exorcised it immediately. Surely the Prince would not have Sired her had he really no attachment to his diligent, dour apprentice.

Favoring self-preservation over basement drain hara-kiri, Serena upturned the blood bag, drinking a quarter to satiate her grumbling stomach and saving whatever remained. With slightly under two pints warming inside, she felt relatively fuller, marginally hardier. Now, if Woeburne could only convince them to bring along a Sinatra compilation and a small collection of paperbacks, the Foreman reasoned she might be able to scrape out a halfway decent existence down here for another week or so. The notion creased a fresh cut down her grinning bottom lip. _'Hah! 'Summer Wind' and Stendhal as my prison backdrop' –_ a prime piece of evidence that she really needed to see about getting over herself sometime soon. Maybe blueblood genetics had affected this down-to-earth Childe more deeply than a former bean-counter cared to admit.

Then again, it was a daydream that, for all its impracticality, threw grim perspective into light. You could not traverse the elite very long without taking luxury for granted. Lofty Prince LaCroix might not have been the most loving of benefactors, but Serena had been smothered in magnanimous extravagance anyway; it was a byproduct of living in a Prince's properties (_being_ a Prince's property). Her expenses, even when she deliberately tried to accrue them, didn't make a chip in company resources. Dry Ms. Woeburne had never been a spendthrift or credit-wanton. Her domineering Sire – who once saluted under Napoleon – surely must've fashioned other Childer over the centuries, but Serena had never met any. So she let herself be content with her status, and with lavish life of a reclusive. Perhaps she was not his dolly or even a favorite pet; Sebastian still saw to it the Ventrue had fiscal access to virtually unlimited comfort, and any amount of reserves.

The chair she'd been stuffed into earlier would've been a nice addition to this drab little cage – or perhaps a decent weapon, once dissembled – but (of course) they'd taken that tiny privilege, too. Ms. Woeburne hugged knees-to-chest in an attempt to compensate and propped her chin atop them like a punished girl.

This was all so bloody useless.

'_Wasteful – that's really what it is.' _Serena despised wastefulness, couldn't abide inefficiency. Good corporals utilized every resource to its completion. Ms. Woeburne was brutally meticulous - recycled each stray paper, shredded business documents and discarded editorials; she wore her coats to tatters; she snugly capped her pens. _Pens!_ The Ventrue didn't wish to measure her life in office products, but it couldn't be helped; dying here was among the ten most wasteful things she'd ever witnessed. It ranked right between professional sports and feature journalism.

Serena hammered her brow with a palm heel, thought about pacing, and ultimately didn't expend the effort. Instead, she narrowed on the only source of movement in this black hole: one beetle, tangerine-orange, a hatchling on its way. The Kindred watched it crawl up an adjacent wall. It moved in interesting, sedate, concentrated ways – small shell scuttling, antennae tapping out a cautious path, legs marching forward with militant precision. The creature did not disgust LaCroix's Childe; it merely evoked a sort of repulsed pity. Was this little grain of energy capable of comprehension? Could it ever appreciate how close it crawled to extinction through that mighty focus? Not likely, but the story of nature was usually sad. Its color almost made her grateful. She had not noticed it here in the dark.

The vampire's eyes followed her miniature houseguest a few more moments before, mandibles chattering, it drew too near – and, with one accurate thumb – Ms. Woeburne smashed it into paste.


	12. Windflower

**Windflower**

Four days had passed since Saturday, yet Lily instinctively felt that something was very, very wrong.

She'd been scheduled to drop by Ms. Woeburne's apartment yesterday – tidy up the place, as usual. There was never much strenuous labor to be done; empty garbage bins, dust electronics, iron clothing or run tired suits to the laundromat. Didn't take more than a couple hours at maximum. Barely seemed the woman needed a maid, to be honest; apart from general workplace clutter, she kept a tight battleship of a home, and it sometimes made Lily worry about holding her job. Would've been a shame to lose this one. It was a decent arrangement for a decent vampire, and Lord knew those didn't come around very often for people like them. Her compensation was generous. Her employer was quiet, upright, predictable – perhaps a bit of a cold fish – but not a particularly difficult lady to work for. So long as she showed up on time, didn't swipe anything, and remembered every lock on her way out, there were no problems. And life had become much easier for a thin-blood with reliable income and the distant protection of service.

Lily quickly liked Ms. Woeburne. The Ventrue forced smiles through stress lines, above the darkness around her worried stare, and tipped well. True, she didn't confide much beyond twenty-dollar bills and pleasant expressions - there were no real Kindred family ties - but the absence of contempt meant much to a creature accustomed to fear. It made her feel sad, almost. Serena didn't appear that much older - not in face; not in the wound pitch of a blunt, withheld voice - and the Caitiff sometimes wondered if this cool, polite professionalism could've been what her own life, given better blood, might be. She looked but did not seem very human. Speaking with her tended to be uncomfortable. Those smiles were there, but however appreciated, they always felt a little like crinkling paper.

Rolf had been a Ventrue, too; she knew that much, if not exactly what it meant.

It was something like a symbiotic relationship. The thin-blood was protected by association with her host in exchange for minor services, for easy convenience. It followed that Lily didn't pry, didn't ask for information that wasn't volunteered or complain about how little she seemed to factor. Smart lampreys shouldn't inch too close to a bigger predator's tender spots, but Ms. Harris made a few observations anyway: a handful of things to notice about clean corporates with neat fingernails and polished shoes. The vampire did not socialize much. Serena preferred quiet in her home - requested all vacuuming and scrubbing be done while she was out of the house. She wanted her clothing sorted and hung in a very particular way. It wasn't a big deal (especially not with a checkbook like hers), but these details all stacked up, and left a wanting picture of someone obsessed over small control. It figured into the other bits-and-pieces of personality. It was a collage of someone who did not take to - did not spend time on - did not want many people.

Lily was sure her boss lived alone, and doubted it had ever been otherwise. This was a dreadful thought for someone thrice run off beaches on account of bad politics. Being poor was still hard; being a shunned half-made abomination was harder; but at least she had E. Ms. Woeburne had bleached cabinets, this chic art-scattered suite at the lavish Empire Arms, tables made of high-grade wood and an excellent computer - but apart from that, seemingly not much. The Ventrue did not chat about personal things or indicate any life misgivings or moments of unhappiness. She never sulked or looked defeated. These features were disturbing to a mutt of a girl who had regular nightmares about being alone in this world; even odder was how scant the dividing line between purebred and mongrel sometimes seemed. Their bodies were both female. Their hair was about the same length.

It was mildly suspicious and somewhat off-putting, but Lily mostly thought it kind of a shame.

Rolf had taught his weak-blooded Childe only rudimentary information about Kindred society; she had no notion of words like Camarilla, Scepter, Prince or Foreman. The fledgling did not even know what it was Serena actually _did_ for a living – merely that she worked at Venture Tower downtown, obviously in a position that paid pretty well. Woeburne dolled out Jacksons like pocket change, seemed underwhelmed by crystal or marble. The Ventrue did not frown over bill piles. Though their relationship had existed only a few weeks, she always called ahead if office matters cancelled upcoming appointments, and usually paid her housekeeper a bit extra in advance.

So, when yesterday came and went with no word whatsoever, Lily began to wonder if Serena was all right.

She hated to barge into the place like a jealous lover, especially since her employer's disinterest in Lily was plain, but bad behavior just wasn't in-character for meticulous Ms. Woeburne. So – more invested than she ought to be – the neonate found herself scuttling awkwardly up Empire Arms Hotel that evening, exchanging a familiar nod with its nasally doorman, lanky freckled arms bulging with uncollected mail. Her nose, a small snub, itched in the atmospheric change. Frigid air conditioning inside; damp, earthy winter outside. It made the long lines around Lily's naval and backbones look paler and more transparent than they were. She had that tough kind of skin that ought to have been under beach sun, speckled in screen; her old summers were made of volleyball friends, picnic lunches and drinks with embarrassing names. The best memories involved the color evenings turned her soft carroty mess of hair, making everything stronger, a slow-burn of orange to red on ocean and bangs and sandy shins. But all those colors had gone cold over LA hours ago. She stepped off an elevator and edged down mahogany, over Moroccan rug, towards her client's suite.

It wasn't strange to find Serena's mailbox full, for the Ventrue got a lot of letters, and occasionally forgot to check in downstairs. The abandoned _incoming_ slot had been stretching its hinges tonight, however - fattened by bank statements, rolled manila packages, and several crisp envelopes stamped LACROIX FOUNDATION in intimating black ink. Lily didn't read the return addresses too closely. She weeded out any obvious junk and deposited it in the nearby chute before pressing Ms. Woeburne's buzzer.

There was no response. Harris jostled the haphazard heap of post, fluttering stray papers, before mashing down that little gold button again – harder this time. Nothing.

'_God, I hope she's not pissed.' _Lily bit down on her lip to taste chapstick. She had cracked a picture frame last week, and though Serena waved the mishap off (along with offers to replace it), maybe there'd been unspoken offense. The girl slid her phone out of a snug Capri pocket and fumbled to dial. Not only did the home number go unanswered, but her mobile buzzed audibly from inside, as well.

Lily now began to fret in earnest. No woman with that intensity of worklife left behind her cell – not unless she'd since packed up and fled the country. But considering the way her own Sire left, perhaps international disappearing acts were common among Kindred. She didn't know. She picked up a fist and banged it, called out. Nothing happened. Nobody came to check or see.

Fine tendrils tickled across the thin-blood's forehead, an unpleasant sensation that mirrored what was going on inside her stomach. Undeath had already served a taste of its myriad dangers to this woman, and though she knew Serena was no waif vampire, ancestor purity did not grant invulnerability. What if something had happened to her? What if – God forbid – Ms. Woeburne was lying comatose on the opposite side of this sealed door in a pool of blood? The idea terrified. _'I can't just stand here,'_ she decided, digging into her wallet for a library card. There had to be serious ramifications for breaking into the apartment of one's supernatural boss, but what else was there – sauntering off and forgetting everything about her? That wasn't Lily Harris. She may have been a little monsterling now, or so Rolf said - smiling his mean pet name for her in an accent that would soon turn very cool - but she was not one capable of callous indifference. It was an important thing about her. It mattered. Not everyone needed a rational explanation why.

Imitating a shitty spy flick she'd seen last year, Lily carefully jimmied the wedge of plastic between door and latch. She worked it around the locking mechanism, feeling edges bend, clueless about signs or latch sounds. Luck eventually tripped a trigger, though - and with one tentative hand, the thin-blood pushed into Ms. Woeburne's quiet suite.

No one was there.

Everything looked to be in order. The lights were dim and the den was neat, leather furniture smooth, idle computer bathing its desk perch in chilly neon. Serena's unused fireplace remained safely shut, television clicked off. Her kitchen bar gleamed with fresh polish, uncluttered by foodstuffs, the solitary stone-blue island empty save one stack of unsigned papers. Footprints barely dented the welcome mat. Ms. Woeburne's cellular phone lay neatly atop the glass coffee table, just abreast of an abalone shell catch-all. Apart from the glaring absence of its owner, nothing really seemed out-of-sorts – merely too silent. Only the daylilies on her countertop showed signs of abandonment, white leaves curling brown at their delicate edges. Maybe Serena forgot to water them.

Lily set the mail under that ugly old snail of a centerpiece, tiptoeing around the rectangular sofa and towards her adjacent dining room. Unlike Ms. Woeburne's lounge, laden with cold middle-tones and gray carpet, this short hallway was high-ceilinged hardwood. Its floor was merciless lumber, freezing beneath bare feet. Wicked tall lamps loomed like hangmen, black and vertical, over an unexplainably menacing table made of red oak. That spotless, brutal surface arched wide enough to make the surroundings seem claustrophobic. Art deco framed barren walls. Perhaps this corridor felt so frightful from its own irrelevance; what purpose did a meal chamber serve blood-drinkers? It joined the sad cabaret of other fruitless appliances, from refrigerator and toaster oven to a closet stocked with untouched toiletries.

At least the tub hadn't been out-evolved. Lily was working her way around the table and towards Serena's lavatory – a mirror-dominated space annex the well-kept master bedroom – when she stumbled over a pair of discarded stilettos.

And a sock?

And a coat caught, one sleeve inside-out, on the edge of a dining chair.

All right; there was no _way_ Serena would have left her home like this, business call or Mexico escape. Stubbing her toe, the neonate picked each piece of clothing up and deposited them in better places: unclasped heels in a living room corner, loose sock (where was its mate?) in the nearby hamper, jacket neatly on a wire hanger. Her relief was like iodine. _'She must've just come home from work and passed right out or something,' _Lily realized. And Ms. Woeburne did work hard. Fear derailed this welcome sight with the revelation her host might actually be present, after all; she froze, wide-eyed, backpedaling for Serena's front door. _'God, Lily! Why?' _better judgment moaned. Dull fangs chewed on the inside of one cheek._ 'What kind of paranoid freak breaks into their boss's house? It was one missed appointment. One. Jesus... now she's probably going to fire me – and I have it coming, too.'_

Her fingers had already grabbed the handle when a bolt of irritation pinched Lily short. _'Not like a call ahead of time was too much to ask, though_.' It was damn rude, in fact. It was also pretty uncalled for to blow her off in such an abrupt matter with neither hide-nor-hair of a hint. She must've really liked that stupid picture frame. _'What a dumb thing to get so tweaked over. I mean, it's not like I didn't try to buy her a new one…' _

Wait a minute. Lights mellow, flowers deserted, shoes lying in the hallway? Lily had definitely seen this before. _'Oh shit! What if she's with a man?' _

That this possibility didn't occur, despite herself having been Embraced straight out of an aphrodisiac sophomore year, probably said enough. Lily didn't want to give off the wrong impression. It wasn't as though Ms. Woeburne came across as unattractive – cyclist physique, smoky eyes, synched belts and a dark, conservative sort of class. The aggressive work ethic simply steamrollered everything else. She made time for no nonsense, excessiveness or the non-essentials. Her collars were always buttoned, dress flattering enough but unremarkable, platonic stockings unglorifying the leg muscle inside. Mind you, Harris _liked_ her employer. She didn't mean any offense. And shit, she could certainly forgive _if_. Better to just leave now and say nothing.

'_Could vampires even…?'_ The thin-blood wasn't sure. There was no way of telling whether or not the physiological changes she'd underwent applied to pedigree Ventrue - not short of asking. (Lily was not going to ask.) Running this curiosity by Ms. Woeburne later might be worth the brief discomfort involved, but it was an awfully weird conversation point for information that likely wouldn't satisfy. Rolf had never been sexually interested in her, after all, and Lily had never wanted kids. She knew only that she didn't bleed anymore; that her body didn't renew, didn't reproduce itself or the potential for another human being. Maybe it was just the males. E seemed mostly functional, but then again, his blood was weedier than hers, stock diluted enough to allow the lucky jerk occasional pretzels or a bland bologna on rye. (Which made the envious Sire irritated as hell – one generation removed – unable to stomach even a measly glass of melon juice. He was a sweetheart for not eating in front of her.)

This theory proved nothing, anyway, as Serena could've just as easily been with another Kindred woman. Which would have been fine. The native Oregonian left her crap-sack hometown for a reason, you know, not the least of them getting away from small-county bigots. Lily had sort of pegged Ms. Woeburne as an undead lesbian, or something.

Either way, the new scenario was a comforting and mundane one – hence there was no use being a nosy ass, poking around for so-called evidence until inevitably disturbing her boss. She could safely go back home and forget all the stages of suspicion weathered tonight. E had been right again when he'd gently cautioned his girlfriend about upsetting herself too quickly. Ms. Woeburne would call in a day or two, most likely, and probably double her next paycheck. Thank God that mess was over. For a hair-raising moment there, the young woman had honestly been getting afraid.

Concerns placated with the brute force of denial, Lily couldn't explain why – just before stepping outside – she stormed back in, pulse pounding, and threw open that ominously quiet bathroom door.

And she saw the splintered mirror, saw its edges speckled scarlet.

Lily screamed.

A deluge of stupid "oh-my-god!"s spilled everywhere as she retreated, staggering, ramming her bum into an edge of that daunting table. Coherent thought exploded. All human tones bleached out beneath spotted skin and tight, stinging diaphragm. Hazel eyes went glossy and huge. Both hands leapt to her horrified mouth as though she might scream again.

Lily, dizziness whirling every step, tore back into the combination den/study. She groped for the answering machine, finding it empty; she nearly broke Serena's cellular phone to find strange numbers, someone who could be called for help. _What could she do? _The hostile flow of information meant nothing, bounced uselessly inside her brain but Jesus Christ, _'I have to think of something!'_ Ms. Woeburne's second life must've been in jeopardy… and that was merely on an off-chance she wasn't already a heap of cinders.

Lily looked closely, morbidly, at the shag carpet of her floor. There was no telltale dust. There were no follicles that could have been bone, tissue, female body.

A sensation like fainting made everything feel clumsily light, but the thin-blood found herself whirling about in Serena's desk chair, hoping for she-wasn't-sure-what. Lily's palm trembled the mouse pointer, making navigation difficult. Fortunately, the Ventrue must've been checking her e-mail before whatever happened did; a window hung open, a lengthy list of correspondence from various senders that all looked vaguely important, all beyond recognition, all ominously unclear.

Lily's first click landed.

**Dear Miss Woeburne:**

**Please drop by my office at your next convenience to discuss a business opportunity I would like you to fulfill.  
**

**Yours,**

**SL**

It meant nothing. But these instructions reminded of what Serena's business _was_; there had to be something the boss of her boss could do to respond. Quaking fingers punched in a search-bar query for Venture Tower – located the office number – then sandwiched her cell between ear and shoulder, waiting. Each unanswered ring sent a flutter through the girl's heart. She sat through what seemed like three hours of loophole and hold music before reaching a live line.

When a female voice picked up – corporate welcome saturated in crispy, ladylike French – Lily almost choked on her gratitude. "Thank you for calling!" it chirped. "You have reached the LaCroix Foundation, Los Angeles branch. How may we help you this evening?"

Her own answer was strangled, lost through chattering teeth. Lily despaired at how much she sounded like some empty pockets crack-addict. "I don't- Please, you need to- Just give me a minute?" Pleas, powerless, tumbled out before she could string up anything better. The thin-blood sucked in a deep, steadying breath. "My name is Lily. Lily Harris. Listen, I… I think one of your employees is in serious trouble. She needs help right away! I'm..." She coughed, swallowed, tried to get a hold on those bloody pieces of mirror. "I'm not sure what her position is, but I know she works for the LaCroix Foundation…"

The receptionist cut her off, abrupt and elegant. "I'm sorry, madam – who is calling?"

"Lily Harris." Her name tasted feeble, inconsequential. She gulped audibly. "I'm a friend." (That wasn't quite right.) "Her maid. But I'm standing right here in her apartment, and I have no idea where she is! I know something terrible's happened to her. I think she was abducted-"

Silence snuffed the receiver. Lily could sense a fingernail hovering over _disconnect_.

"Please, don't hang up! You have to believe me," she begged, near tears. Desperation tingled behind both eyes, threatening to cry; panic soured deep within her chest, threatening to turn into bile. "I know this sounds bogus, but I-"

"The Foundation is not licensed to handle medical calls. If you feel there is an immediate predicament, ma'am, you must hang up and dial an emergency operator. Goodbye." Lily was unable to spit out so much as _stop_ before the connection went dead.

The girl doubled-over, distraught, mind reeling. Someone had to know. There could be no kine police; even she realized that, hated it, missed those tried-and-true numbers 9-1-1. "Masquerade" meant little, but no predator reveals herself to dangerous prey. She could not appeal to them. She had to find someone. There was no time to get sad or scared or let the panic swell to pop. She had to think of something; had to go.

Lily stood up, shoving Ms. Woeburne's keys and cellular phone into one jean pocket. She ran to the ominous doorstep of Venture Tower.


	13. Guessing Games

**Guessing Games**

Nines was getting tired of this.

No doubt Ms. Woeburne would've echoed her captor's sentiment – his aggravated exhaustion – had she not currently been teething on a nice, wooly strip of industrial pipe cleaner. Yet she could _say_ nothing, articulate less than that. There was very little air getting in and out through the binds wrapped around the dangerous parts of a creature. Snake anatomy; fang and poison. They had neutralized what sat inside that mouth. They had gagged then taped the Ventrue's jaws so that she could not bite and could not break off her teeth.

Excessive measures, perhaps. But Serena had already proven them necessary - and, after four days of imprisonment, she felt crazed enough to chomp right through the meat of her tongue. Sharp canines plunged deep into the thick, abrasive bristles of artificial horse hair instead. Quills pricked white ulcers into each cheek, leaking ichors, small speckles of pain that distracted her from fist blows. Maybe it was for the best. She was not happy about choking on a buffer, but sore gums were still preferable to cracked enamel, to ruining the most basic tool of the species they were. You could have bottled venom from the clench of her mandible. She would have bitten straight down to solid bone.

Unfortunately, Ms. Woeburne's gratitude was somewhat dampened by the three fingers Nines Rodriguez had just wrenched back to her wrist.

A loud, strangled cry burst from Serena's diaphragm and through her nose, car-horn pain, muffled by the spines she couldn't spit out. It left her body as saline instead – tears that did not gently roll, but ruptured. Both forearms jerked beneath the duct tape that held them fast to this metal chair.

"That was a mistake, Cam." The Anarch's voice was callous; his gaze was polished, jagged tin. She instantly regretted her last chuff. She could not in that moment see past the water, the mistake. "You been making a lot of those tonight. So I'm going to make us a deal, set up some expectations of this chat. I'm going to tell you what. Every time you try lying to me, here on, I'm breaking a finger. When I run out-" He tapped. "I'm going to start cutting them off."

Serena wouldn't – couldn't bear to – look at her injured hand, sad digits twisted into a Halloween caricature. The vampire's knuckles were swollen to great yellow puffs from pointer to pinky. They'd made a sickly, spongy _'krick!' _when Rodriguez had snapped all three in tandem.

Nines ignored her discomfort. Punishment administered, Baron LA returned to where he'd held fort most of the night, leant against one of those bleached basement walls. It was far enough to abandon, close enough to intrude. Ms. Woeburne tried to factor their proximity into a blank nothing-space. Self-preservation, difficult effort; he was currently testing the pocketknife in his hand, unfolding its blade, scraping at a thumbnail. The glint and lead spots mesmerized her. They had not been put to use, but the representation of danger was always there, taunting a prisoner strapped in makeshift manacles. The memory of its sharp proof made protecting her sanity hard. If she could only get a hold on that worn-out Kershaw again… "We'll keep this simple for a while. I'm going to ask you a few simple questions; all you have to do is nod your head 'yes.' Easy as pie. You're probably real good at that."

Ms. Woeburne would've spat out her mouthful of cushion and told the Brujah to go to hell, but there were two fat gluey strips sealing everything in. So "fuck you" became a confusion of throat growls and squealing. The Ventrue seethed against her chair; nostrils flared with hisses that had nowhere else to go. These naked lights were hurting her eyes. Epoxy burnt the skin upon both wrists; struggling had rubbed them pinkish, but hadn't loosened much. Skelter must've wrapped two full rolls around the woman's forearms before he marched out and left her here with an impatient, frighteningly businesslike Baron.

At first, he'd stared at her across the empty room with no expression at all – a look more paralyzing than any insolent glare. She scowled back, but beneath the vicious exterior, a gulp had hit her gut like a stone.

And – stuttered excuses, offenses, failures and punches later – they were here. For a moment, Woeburne felt distinctly as though she'd no hands left at all. "Let's go over what I know," the Baron suggested, sounding calm, menacingly not. He cleaned his nails with the tip of the knife. "I know you're LaCroix's replacement pet. I know you never been in my city before. I know LaCroix called you in - and that you tried to run me over soon as your feet touched the ground. We've established all that. So I can assume this long list of what I know must mean your Prince found what's left of his latest errand-boy. Is that right?"

She offered nothing. The Anarch hadn't glanced up, still toying with his chosen tool of trade. Serena guessed from the man's slack stature and leading tone this was mostly a fortitude test. Less afraid of revealing classified information than one of her thumbs rolling across the floor, she dipped chin-towards-collarbone once. It was an compromise, a cooperation bid. Those nickel eyes intimated nothing.

"Fine. Let's try another. And this is another giveaway, so don't waste my charity: he know it was us?"

Another confirmation on the Ventrue's behalf – not as assertive, this time, but still a legitimate "yes." The nod plunked a leftover teardrop onto her already soiled blouse neck. She was still pain-dizzy, but adrenaline had numbed the screaming sensation to a pattern of dull, tacky throbs pulsing towards her knuckles.

"Can't imagine he could prove it." This was not a question; the voice that said so was confident, and perhaps a touch amused. You might have lost the outlines of his face in the darkness outside her overhead light. You wished you could lose the gunmetal stare. "Your boss seems to think he can kill State soldiers out-of-town as he pleases. But that's not the way it's going today. Scourge on my people, spies in my borders; are you really _surprised_ I shot back? And now I'm being asked – by the kid of the man who killed our kids – to let an assassin walk clean. That's the way it stands. That's the concession I am being asked to make. So it might occur to you, Serena Woeburne, that I'm not in the mood for guessing games." Silence that was not subtle. The rasp of steel, grown rhythmic, paused. She should not have glanced up to check it; a bad shade of blue seized her attention, danger promise, and wouldn't let it go. What would that knife scrape, that _skritch_, feel like in her hands, sound on her bone? "De Luca didn't _scare_ us – boot-licking corporate prick. Never should have been alive in the first place. LaCroix can vouch for that. And at least the last son-of-a-bitch he sicced on me slung a double-barrel. What the fuck does he think we'll do to you?"

She did not mean to, but Serena Woeburne could not help it, and quickly looked away.

"_Huh_." A game lost. The knife moved again. The scoff was punctuated by a bemused, conversant shake of his head. "Shit. Maybe I'm not the one ought to be sweating, Cam."

"Grrgh-msfun-nnng!" Ms. Woeburne said. Fury was bubbling up through nerves, corneas, lids.

What arrogance to compare a Prince's Childe to Victor de Luca - some hardly-legal neonate; an ancilla's accident; that overeager, fulsome ox of a yes-man, fit only for triggers and the dirtiest work. Again, Serena must point out that she'd never actually met her forerunner in-person – but God, did that lad seem tragic. He was another flatterer, a self-deluder, looking foolish as he tried to seem cosmopolitan cool. There were hundreds of them: Robert Cohns of the Camarilla. She was aware Rodriguez wanted to scare her, to seed doubt, undermining the loyalties of a disposable trooper so betrayal wouldn't taste so foul. Still, Woeburne found it rather ironic he'd adopt such a belittling tone towards her capabilities between words like "assassin" and "concession." It was especially humorous considering how uncomfortably close she'd come to wiping the Anarch out in an automobile pile-up earlier this very month. The Ventrue would have liked to remind her captor of this incident… but besides being gagged, she figured doing so would only earn a broken pinky.

It was an unintelligible argument. Nevertheless, Nines felt he could make a pretty educated guess as to where LaCroix's Childe just told him to go. He'd since begun circling, a shark in shallow water, a cold not-chuckle that fell flat fast. "After all this, I'm wondering one thing – and I bet you are, too. If things are as simple as they seem here – like what you've been telling me. What good are you, Serena Woeburne? I mean: this isn't the frontier out here. This is LA. There's plenty of gofers and shit-eaters in the local Ventrue to find somebody for grunt work. He's been managing all this time just fine. So maybe you'd be asking right about now, you were in my shoes, or maybe in yours: why _did_ he import your inbred ass all the way over here? Even if I were to swallow the bullshit you've been trying to feed me about wrong intel, Camarilla, it still leaves a nasty taste in my mouth. Is this the Prince's idea of baiting us? Or do you got some secret purpose I am unaware of?"

Ms. Woeburne's shoulders gave an annoyed shrug, dark eyebrows furrowing, wetness rolling angrily down both cheeks. Her irritated snort was wordless but clear: _"How the hell should I know?"_

Nines thought about smacking the kid, but could sort of believe her on this one.

"Princess," the Baron sighed; he now stood directly across from Serena, whose glare puffed itself larger beneath a shadow twice her size. One corner of mouth tape had gone sticky from the slow trickle of her eyes, curling like dead skin. His arms crossed. Stout heart tenacity in torture sessions was almost admirable – fucking stupid waste of effort, seeing as the Cam'd never reciprocate – but Rodriguez had very little sympathy for Kindred, least of all Ventrue. She stuck a knife in Skelter the other day… got it away from Nines and grazed him. The thin slice healed itself in under an hour, but her impression had not. That was a dumb thing to forget. "I understand that you're the tool of a Cape. But I refuse to accept you're this goddamn useless."

The Brujah grabbed one edge of that peeling strip and ripped it painfully off her face, causing redness, leaving gooey tracks of adhesive. Ms. Woeburne sent a highly unprofessional spit bullet at him the moment she had leeway to do so. It splattered impotently against the linoleum. Her entire palate, covered in cankers, felt as though she'd just gargled with a mouthful of Drano; saliva dripped from the rejected pipe cleaner, which had turned thick and clotty with oral blood. She held her tongue carefully between tender gums.

Rodriguez repaid the gutsy action with a guffaw and one elbow upside Ms. Woeburne's skull that humiliated more than it hurt. Reflex – basic reaction compounded with disorientation, panic, and the recklessness of seeing one's doom. Reflex swiveled that thumping head and snapped after her captor's retreating arm. Teeth clapped air. This time, however, Serena realized exactly what it was she'd just done a moment afterwards... and grimaced in preparation for that inevitable knuckle-to-the-face.

'_What I wouldn't give for a sedative,' _was Ms. Woeburne's last coherency before the world firecrackered into another white haze. Nines had neatly dropped the heel of his palm atop her set of crumpled fingers and _flattened_.

Serena heard the crackle, wracked with the immediate anguish. But she felt nothing afterwards - not pain; not embarrassment; not her eyeballs locking back into their sockets, piranha-like. Everything from tricep downwards turned to ice-cold nervous system static. Time turned blocky and dull.

Woeburne was encountering a bit of difficulty with the whole 'seeing' issue at present. Yet she could decipher the foggy outline of Rodriguez's face, threateningly close; could trace his cheekbones; determined he had perched down before her sorry chair to stare the Ventrue directly in her eyes. They didn't process much. Both the Anarch's hands were sinking pitilessly onto her own, a sensation like fumbling free weights. She had expected to find the switchblade nailing her to an armrest, jammed through carpals, but somewhere along the line it had slid back into one of Nines's pockets. That was a superficial comfort. The Baron was fearfully close. His knees were bent, brows level, look upsettingly patient. Her limb had been rived into a bomb - muscle, marrow and tissue ticking away until it could communicate what was done to it. He waited for the TNT to ignite before speaking.

When it did, Serena howled herself hoarse in a single shockwave of sound. It was like a guillotine had fallen. Under that great heaviness, the Ventrue could not speak, remember words. She was more or less mute by the time he continued.

"You're starting to stink like dead fledgling, Camarilla," Nines observed. Treacherously cool; lids at menacing, unfazed half mast. One eyebrow quirked. "Second time you tried to bite me. Pull a stunt like that again and I'll knock those teeth straight down your throat, leave you gumming on scabs. That sound fun to you?"

Ms. Woeburne's rumpled phalanges were nauseating to look at, worse to try and feel. Meanwhile, Brujah calm was terrifying. Acid simmering in her stomach, she tentatively tried swallowing, afraid the sting might induce vomit. It did not. Serena's heavy head lagged forward on her neck, relieved. She hovered like that for another minute, subdued silence, breathing. It was not a long time to rebuild her shuttered reserve, to firmly batten down this _ache_ that emanated from every corridor of body. She should have used the delay to formulate a logical argument. She did not manage.

"I am _tired_," was all. Her pride was precipitously thin. Her pronunciation became murderously, bitterly clear. "I cannot tell you how tired. I am filthy, and I am very, very hungry. So, in spite of everything: you really should believe me when I say that I am not thinking altogether clearly." The woman winced away a hair follicle that shuffled into her teary left eye. She drew one unneeded breath just for the comfort of cold within an aching chest. Forget Rodriguez's blatant threats; here was a confession from a Kindred blueblood, dignity extracted like pulled teeth. She wanted to cry. She didn't. It wouldn't have helped, and it wasn't her character. "But it seems to me that if you stood up, handed over a key and let me out of this ridiculous chair, we'd never have to worry about the biting problem ever again."

Nines did not blink – did not move, really. He stared, almost thoughtful. "I can think of a few other ways we'd never have that problem again."

Prince LaCroix's Childe finally decided it might be in her best interests to just shut the fuck up.

Strangely enough, it hurt worse when Rodriguez removed his hands than the initial blow had. Serena's fingers inflated like party balloons. The sudden alleviation of weight made her sandwiched cartilage shriek joyously for its release. But because her bronchs were still raw - too raw - Ms. Woeburne expressed her own suffering through a wobbly sigh. Two exhales pushed firmly, resolutely through damp sinuses. She forced down the rock in her throat. _'Not as though screaming like a frat house whore was doing me much good, anyhow.' _Besides, it made such an embarrassing racket. Serena was no fan of being the center of attention; stage lights, company presentations and Anarch interrogations all made her quite the Nervous Nellie.

Bleakest, blackest humors from the ugliest side of her mind. They usually made her regret them, but now, one snide little commentary brought a wince of self-pity, too. Now? Even _now_? It stirred dismal, heartbreaking disbelief that the best she could do on the edge of her life was toss out a few cynicisms, dig a couple prickly barbs. Rigid, straight-laced sarcasm right in the face of her own killing. Misguided and foolish. Halfcocked, vain, self-destructive. Classic Woeburne.

Nines might've had similar thoughts, because Baron Los Angeles set the session aside for a moment, gave her some breathing room. He had returned to the wall, concrete ruffling his jacket between both shoulder blades. The Anarch's arms crossed - a standoffish, unruffled and vaguely irritated posture - their natural resting place. It is a very tense body that invests so much conscious effort into appearing relaxed. "It's like this, Camarilla. There's a lot of better things I could be doing right now. Understanding that I don't tolerate corporate executions, I'm getting pretty goddamn sick of your attitude, so I'll give you a break," he offered. Serena suspected this was an entendre for what would shortly happen to her neck, but she had always been a killer pessimist... and it likely wouldn't kill her too badly, anyway.

"I've gotten enough breaks," she began, a crinkle of fingertips, a wisecrack that hopelessness faded away.

He ignored her rasp. "Here is the best bargain I'll cut you, Scepter," Rodriguez opened - a facade of fairness, a political gamble, something less-than straightforward. He glanced nonchalantly at his dominant hand again. She was not sure what he could be looking for but the patrician blood drying under his nails. "And I recommend you take it. We're going to play a little capitalism game. Little free-market exchange, you and me, right here. Here's how this is going to work."

Sadistic rules for a sadist's gambit. Her jowls started to pound. She gave one wrist a futile, resentful, stinging pull.

"You got the next, say, ten minutes to win your life back. I want you to sit there a couple of those minutes - however long it takes a black tie to figure out what she's worth. Get a feel for what you're willing to put up for auction. Draw yourself a little business plan. Then you pitch me a sale; Ventrue are always good for that. Bid something halfway interesting - some information equal-price to what I think your head is - you get ten more minutes. So on and on and on. Keep on like that, we can play all night - until we come to some kind of agreement, or until you run out of time."

Serena's stomach clenched, nostrils flared; one of them began to bleed again. You do not haggle with these people. You do not play the Free-State politburo's games. "You're not the sort of client we like to do business with," she said, and swallowed the trickle that ran back down her throat.

"No other 'we' to this, Woeburne. This is laissez-faire - our private transaction. I honor that." His tone was awfully, awfully smug; _la-say-fare_; but belittlement held small weight against the starker potential for death. "Tough but fair. Money is blind. Ain't those the party lines? You stay in this market long enough, don't default, we can talk about what it's going to take to get you out of here." Nothing at the ends of her knuckles; nothing at the top of her spine. It was a lie, a dissident lie, a filthy presumptuous Anarch lie. Serena began to shake despite herself. Her eyes dilated obviously. She did not believe him, but the thought of life, the chance at a world outside, was tantalizing. He might as well have thrown a raw hank of meat before a lion starving on somebody's chain. With its taste in her mouth, a gulp hurt more than the gummy mess of workings in Ms. Woeburne's fist did.

"Could stand to make a killing, Ventrue," Nines Rodriguez whistled through his teeth, noticing. Her face was forlornly open, desperately hungry. Even lean possibility turned the pupils big and dark. The mind behind them wavered wildly; which penalty to pick between treason and murder? She did not know. She was not sure. "All your selling's words. But I buy, I cut my losses, and maybe I turn you loose."

"I can't do that," she argued, a blurt, despair that stretched her gullet painfully wide. Her face tilted up towards the ceiling to roll back the nose-blood, to hold in the swell behind those whites that were yawning humanly black. "This isn't a bargain. This isn't something I can sell. You know I can't- I can't offer you anything."

"Bad news, Cam. Sudden inflation. Price just went up. Eight minutes."

You could not tell her cry from fear or anger: fear at the countdown to crash; anger at that apologetic, taunting shake of his head. "I don't have what you're asking for! This isn't fair or blind; it's useless. It's mad," the Foreman shrilled. Her cheeks were suddenly wet: two damp lines, broken and pink. There had been no drops. They were simply there - no transition, no gradual action, no allowance. "You can't ask me to trade what I don't have!"

"Dig deeper. Seven."

"I'm not going to entertain this. I can't do it," she confessed, a trembling exhale. Her healthiest hand gripped hard at all the armrest it could encompass. Brown fringes flew and stuck to the tear marks, tangled lashes. LaCroix's Childe had shut her eyes and was whipping her chin insistently _no_. "I can't. C_an't_, do you understand?"

"Do you understand your alternative?"

"Cut my fingers off. I'm not playing; I'm not saying anything; I'm NOT DOING IT."

"Gonna be at zero-hour without a dollar in your bank you keep up like this."

She had to stop to cry. It took forty-eight seconds. Nines put it on the clock.

"I know what you're doing," the Ventrue told him, a remarkable force of hatred in a choke. Pent sobs turned to shudders, a bristle of dingy hair, a waterlogged gasp. She would not let them free. Her core hiccuped with the effort of biting back. "I know what this is. There's nothing I can say to matter. Even if I could, which I can't, it won't change a thing. You can't show this crime; you are obligated to erase what you've done here; you know what the cost might be. I am a political inconvenience now and it's too large to be bargained down." Her breath crunched into tiny bits, a cobweb of cracks from a pressure point, stress like a boot on a window pane. Head forward, face down. The red funneled into that gulley of her top lip. "There's nothing I can do about it. You're going to kill me. You'd be an idiot not to."

Rodriguez blinked at her, something like honesty, maybe concern. There was a stitch of reason in the way he looked at her. It was an expression to powerfully want to trust. She knew better and sucked the blood back into her nose, throat, tongue. "Not an inevitability, Cam," Baron LA told her, a cast of a line, a little light to keep his prisoner scared of the consequences of failure. It turned her guts all rotten. She knew that color could be crueler than all the minions and the movements claimed. "You ain't been killed yet, and I need a base in the court. Could be we can come to some sort of understanding about that."

Serena snorted skepticism, but the voice didn't steady, and the wetness didn't stop. "Just like that?"

"Just," he echoed, "like that."

Ms. Woeburne's stifled weeping erupted into cheerless, miserable witch cackles. There wasn't even opportunity to feel offended; she hacked on the disbelief, nasal passages burning. Perhaps Toreador would've eaten the lure, but Kindred of her imperial lineage did not allow themselves to be played by two-faced Brujah, no matter how dire, no matter how blue-eyed and warlike. "Then that's really too bad! That's just… that's just awful," she babbled, snicker and sob, lament less false than her manufactured optimism. Deep, ravenous circles gouged around her sockets. One shoulder stretched to brush some teartrack away. "Because we do still have the unfortunate fact – the fact I know nothing of interest to you. As I have told you again and again, I am uninvolved in Mr. LaCroix's American enterprise. Our international figures won't mean anything here. So I guess I really am _that goddamn useless_." She sniffed and chuckled wretchedly on it. "Unless you're curious to know how much we pay in real estate. Then I suppose… I suppose I'm your snitch."

Lie.

The dismissal ended with a sledgehammered digit. In one decisive series of actions, her forefinger crinkled into an arthritic, violent hook.

Serena didn't even bother screaming this time; she withstood it like a resentful martyr, haunches leaping to cover both ears. Nerves flagged; her brain, after all, did not seem to care much about their reports. The combined pain of three prior fractures nearly blotted out this new injury entirely, mutating her knuckles into some sort of undulating cortisol fog – a fact for which Ms. Woeburne was surprised but thankful. God, if it wasn't for that hideous _sound_…

Hell. She'd bitten straight into her tongue.

Rodriguez, talkative few minutes ago, said nothing in regards to the castigations dealt. Their conditions had already been decided. He watched Serena cough on her own blood, cringe, and internalize the collateral of a self-inflicted wound. Diluted red tinted the backs of clean incisors like strawberry pulp. She lamely contorted the muscle within her mouth for several moments, a weak confirmation it was still in one piece.

"Cam, believe this: I am trying damned hard to get you out of my hair, but you just keep on lying to me," her interrogator groused. It sounded like he was lodging a complaint at her help desk, mildly irritated but enunciation clear, a tone from two dozen Harpies scavenging Hendon. The Ventrue fidgeted. Ms. Woeburne's mauled hand was beginning to plump up like an early Disney cartoon. _'Eh? What's up, Doc? You can't shoot a wabbit!'_

"You're going to kill me," she repeated, unclear if it was an accusation or a loyalty chant to herself.

"Maybe," the Brujah admitted. Her liver still sourly hurt with the outline of his fist. "Imagine you got a better recommendation in that regard."

"None. Kill me."

It was a dare that smacked of insult, even in the resignation it made. Serena glared at the ceiling light with another inhale of her own vitae. The arteries stood out in the tendons and riggings of her neck.

"Can't be your first choice. Let's get creative," Nines suggested, as though they were comrades, brainstorming a solution to trivial problems. The protection of tiny hopes was vital to success. Dead had to believe they could live - had to guard that last square of control with everything left. That truth was more than an interrogation philosophy. It was more than a guessing game. "You can help me here, we can figure something long-term; maybe see about ransoming you back to that tower."

The Foreman felt as ragged as she looked by this point. Serena disabled the autonomy of her insults, cadet posture slumping, drained in defeat. "No. I don't want to be your political blackmail, and there's no point in keeping on like that – like I have no grasp on what's going to become of me. You aren't going to benefit from my release. He isn't going to pay for me. You believe _this_: I realize what's happening here, Anarch," she puffed, jaw draping toward her sternum. Ms. Woeburne shot him a contemptuous look through a windshield of sloppy bangs, the color of java and earth, guessing Rodriguez was probably already doubting her. "It's not a question to me. And you – you are many questionable things, I'm sure, but not an idiot. I know that once you truly think there is nothing left to twist from me, my life is forfeit. Unfortunately for me, that fate is beginning to seem preferable to sitting here and listening for a small eternity while you make a show of how very _fair_ you are."

Brujah teeth grinned at her – cruel, mocking camaraderie. They glistered doglike white. "Kind of a smartass, kid."

"I am not your goddamn kid," she spat. The blood behind Serena's cuspids eked through in droplets. She made no effort to hide it; the Ventrue's disgust extended beyond her own unwashed body, towards a man's insurgents, his deftness in breaking fingers, the hotel doorman who'd let masked abductors bypass their cameras and drag a high-paying tenant into custody, how easily Nines Rodriguez made this slow-motion murder her fault. Umbrage frayed what preservation instinct remained. The depression was immense and deadly. She could have pissed away this whole rancid, freakish city. "It kills you, doesn't it? No matter how hard hit me, it won't make you one of us. It won't make you better than us. Smash every bloody bone I've got – what will that do for you? You are still losing this fight. You are still going to die." The fate made her vestigial airways swell. It might herald death, but she would demolish that derisive, insidious grin from his face. "There is nothing you need from me, but you simply can't accept that I won't roll over because you sidle up and ask me to. But that uncomfortable fact is that I am not my Sire's slave, Mr. Rodriguez, and I am not an Elder's cog. I just think you are wrong."

Hostility flared. It stood him up, spurred the Anarch off that wall. It turned his stare a colder, inhuman temperature. "These are _your_ rules, Cam, not mine. I did not invent this. I did not dream up this fight. I am just a soldier in a war - difference between you and me is that I don't let some corporate blackheart tell me his business is more important than my life. And I don't count coins in the blood on my hands. Think you'd have the privilege of thinking, your people get their way? I don't care what the fuck you think, snake. This is a Free-"

The fist still able to clenched, ligaments flexing; its jumble of bone jumped. "Fuck your State," she woofed. Crimson spattered. The Ventrue's pipe were a rough, wretched tangle of growl. "And fuck your little freedoms in your little crown. You are no different from my kind of tyrant, Mr. Rodriguez – not besides being too craven to authorize the sham rule you have. Blackheart in a rebel's mask. That," Ms. Woeburne spat, "is _pathetic_."

"I tell you what's pathetic, you brainwashed bourgeois piece-of-shit. Fascist-fucking waste of -"

"False prophet. Marching your people over a-"

"Worthless Camarilla jarhead-"

"_Wolf-Prince_."

Bile from the fine china tongue of a Camarilla court-Childe. Green-eyed ego, scale villainy, boa constrictor; they roiled this wolf-Prince's blood beneath his armored coat, ripped the taunting smile into a snarl. These were the baleful teeth of the biblical son shunned – jealousy and contempt – spoiled goodwill made into spearheads by better kingdoms, better kings. The Baron's eyes went black. She'd driven a chisel straight through a demagogue's pretenses of leadership, tapped the wellspring of Brujah temper. It churned visibly. It spilled through the fraud promises in that fraud hero smile.

He upended the chair, metallic explosion, and then there was a magnum hefted at Ms. Woeburne's head.

"Fucking high-and-mighty patronizing blueblood horseshit," Nines growled. Genuine fury deepened the voice that forecast her end; condemnation and rage were a pitch lower than offers of vaunted Anarch friendship. It did not shout. It rolled through his teeth like a timber saw. "You 'Mr. Rodriguez' me one more time, you're gonna be looking at a lot less above your motherfucking neck. Sitting there choking on your own goddamn blood, and you got the nerve to think you're better'n me? Fuck you, then – stuck-up, pompous-ass Ventrue bitch. I got no use or mercy for bureau whores; I'm done with you. Rot there. "

Woeburne pried a sliver of sight through her shut lids, the gamey muscles that stitched Serena's face contracting. There was a blunt ringing behind her lobes like schoolyard fire drills. Her heart felt like a fist and she waited several nonsensical seconds to be killed.

But a shot never hit. By the time LaCroix's Childe had concluded she was not teetering on death's imminent door, the actual door had slammed shut, leaving her both horizontal and alone. She shifted, toppled. There was a distinct pinch between the Ventrue's shoulder blades where a metal bar rooted in. There was a nauseous medley of saliva, nasal drip and clots commingling back up her sinuses. _'Are you kidding me?'_

"Are you kidding me?!" she screamed, but no one answered, and no one heard.

The lock had thunked shut.

Ms. Woeburne – hand bitching, tailbone pressed into her cut-rate Judas chair – could think of only one phrase to frame this predicament:

_Fan-fucking-tastic._


	14. The Mechanicals

**The Mechanicals **

Ms. Lefevre glanced up from her nail file to a palette of freckles, anxiety, and a mop of orange hair.

Joelle blew on the five freshly-buffed claws of her left hand before carefully setting the sandpaper down. How curious! She had not been expecting any callers. Procedure recommended that reception page security to assess all strange arrivals, and this one was certainly _strange _in being so out-of-place. She was a loose thread in the sophisticate gleam of tower lobby, a drop of water in milk. But Lefevre hesitated. Such a fuss to make over such an unassuming visitor; the girl, long bones and thin skin, hardly looked dangerous as she slid under the metal detectors. And that fat, miserable "watchman" Mr. LaCroix kept around to satisfy their need for front-door humanness was incompetent. Surely there was no need to stir up trouble. Even now, the tentative, misbegotten thing stood before Joelle with a handful of ratty tank-top rumpled in her hands, nervousness to match the tennis shoes upon flat, heavy feet. Ah, no; but this would be _precious_.

"Can I help you?" she asked, finely-tweezed eyebrows lifting in obligatory interest. Lily recognized the voice, theatrically French and very much uninvolved. Romance and narcissism, drawn vowels and swooping consonants. They revealed that the patronizing, pouting beauty tucked behind her daunting desk was a creature with little care for _helping_ anyone. The taps of white polish upon black counter might've scared another woman away.

'_Suck it up, Harris. Do it for Ms. Woeburne.'_

"I hope you can," Lily said. She tried to reign her story in, but everything came out head-over-heels, a tumbleweed of information and bad feelings. Pitiable efforts. The fledgling stood on those sneaker toes, unthreading her shirt seams between clammy fingers; she looked more teenager than vampire. She was painfully aware of her own immaturity and struggled to sober herself. "Please listen. My name is Lily Harris. I, uh. I spoke to you on the phone a while ago. I was calling about my boss-" A dry mouthful of _juvenile_. "My employer. I told you about how I think she's gone missing, and I know she works here. For the LaCroix Foundation. Like… like you?"

Joelle folded both manicured hands beneath her perfect point of a chin, leant forward against the desk, and offered an uncaring silicone smile. Long lashes closed then opened in one slow mascara blink. The styling mousse lathered through her caramel up-do glistened like wet skin. Lily was reminded distinctly of a Swarovski crystal porpoise she'd had once as a child – sparkling; pretty; but decidedly, mockingly useless.

The fear came back - fear of that splintered mirror, that hollow apartment, the brittle leaves on island tile. Her face dropped with the ambivalence of Toreador and Covergirl coral. She had to at least try. "I'm not making this up," the thin-blood insisted, daring to leave palm prints on immaculate enamel. It had been an accident, but when did that ever matter? The first smear inverted Joelle's smacking grin into a nicely chagrined grimace. "I was just at her place, and there's… it just looks like somebody grabbed her; I don't know! Everything was left on, her keys, the… the mirror's all smashed-" Silly thing grabbed at her neckline, wringing fabric, poly-blend knots.

Joelle tugged on one cherry-red sleeve. Oversized, glistening bangles shuffled beneath bizarre attire. Lacquer, dyed lace and professional heartlessness – Lily felt like she might just cry. "Mr. LaCroix appreciates your interest in his endeavors," said Mlle. Lefevre grandly, boredom more earnest than the company speech. "However, he is unavailable at this time and cannot be contacted without an approved appointment along with proof of association."

"I don't _have_ an association," Lily blurted. Her fists folded tightly. Stress split the Caitiff's self-consciousness neatly down its crown. Joelle had never seen this face or its freckles, but she had sent the list of harmless servicepeople Serena Woeburne chose her domestic staff from. Thin-bloods were toothless and safe. No need to protect the Masquerade or one's personal interests; they were the impotent, nonexistent class. So too were those who Sired them. Mr. Toten's head had fallen off Nocturne's stage not long ago - not long before that of their Associate who brought the newly-dead de Luca into his brief, stumbling, subservient life. Rolf had wept under his hood like a child. She did not think anyone had told the leftover Childe.

"Then we are dealing with two problems, madam, not just the one." Concern on that face, pleasantness in that voice, and Harris thought the carmine woman might start laughing at her. She stiffened and fought down the shout.

"The only problem is what I'm trying to tell you," Lily insisted. "I don't care about speaking to Mr. LaCroix. I'm trying to tell you that one of your people- " A pointed, meaningful glance. "-is in big trouble. You're feeding me bureaucratic crap when she could really be hurt. She could be - _dead_; I don't know! You have to do something about this. You can't just blow it off like I never came in here-"

Lefevre raked her loud lapels straighter, mouth pursing imperceptibly. This lumbering list of demands and their awkward little spokesgirl were beginning to grate. Irritation was unbecoming an attendant of her particular position. It was the most common emotion Venture Tower's welcome desk felt. "If this is an urgent or criminal matter, Miss… Harris, was it? Yes." Another forced, glamour-doll smile. "Miss Harris, you really must take it to the Los Angeles authorities, as Foundation employees are not licensed to pursue vigilantism. Thank you for coming in. Goodbye."

"I can't talk to the cops about a fucking _vampire,_" Miss Harris began to say, but the Toreador shushed her deftly with a tut.

Lily stared in that lobby for maybe a minute. Her blank face conveyed outrage the woman's lineage would not dare.

If undeath and big cities have taught a modest soul one thing, it is that there are sometimes better options than smashing or scaling brick walls. Foiled thrice, Lily forgot the disinterested secretary, much as she had been forgotten; instead, the thin-blood looked around. Obsidian marble had just been waxed. A group of three cold-shoulder capitalists - who knew if they were supernatural - stepped into an elevator and disappeared. Someone was pushing a squeaky cart into a janitorial closet Harris could not see. It was disturbingly quiet for all this drudgery, fearsomely civil, goosebump barren. There was no one to speak with. Harris craned her neck, trying to see deeper into Sebastian LaCroix's echoing entry lounge than the colossal pillars or reflective tile allowed.

"Excuse me, madam; so sorry. But may I ask what it is you are _doing_?" There was nothing friendly or patient about the way Mlle. Lefevre asked.

"Looking. Are there cameras in here? There have to be cameras," the woman decided for herself. Joelle's impossible eyebrow arched itself into a small architectural marvel. The Toreador's fine hand, however, was not fast enough. Lily reached halfway over the long counter at that interval. It was a jumble of action; the marble pushed in her stomach, and she had to hop forward to grab for a microphone post, but god damn it, she got it. Lefevre jumped back as though expecting to be touched. It no doubt would have been a bigger offense than commandeering wires.

"HELLO?" Harris tried into the snake-wire receiver she'd wrenched towards her mouth. "Is anybody there?"

Joelle's pretty fingers were cruel on Lily's as they wrestled the microphone away. The Toreador's grip was stronger than it should have been, phenomenally icy. The frustration was equally ice as she leant over, gently cleared her throat, and spoke one word into that silent black crosshatch: _"Security."_

They struggled with each other a more moments – until elevator doors beeped open, and out strolled their property frontman.

Bernard "Chunk" Krantz was an able sort of fellow. He traversed these spit-shined hallways (well, at least the first three public floors) every weekday night and sometimes Saturdays, black shoes clapping authority, thumbs hooked through belt-loops with a lawman's swagger. That gait (some might have said "trundle") was the purposeful motion of a man who knew exactly what he wanted. In his confidence was a long history of officership; in those brown eagle eyes, a spark of righteous justice for little people. Men of his ilk were a sort of John Wayne, he liked to think - servants and peace-keepers. The best way to walk that line was with humility. Humility, but with a message. And with what Bernie liked to call the "Four 'S'-es": strength, strategy, social graces and _plenty_ of security. It wasn't just trigger-pulling and intimidating on these streets. To do what he did, and to do a good job, you had to be armed in more ways than one.

Well, "armed" in the sense of "equipped," that is – the LAPD was real strict about regs. for packing actual heat.

Chunk blinked, assessed the situation, and cleared his throat. "Ahem. What," he asked, "seems to be the problem here, ladies?"

Joelle stomped a stiletto neatly into Lily's big toe. The Caitiff let out a yelp and gave up the microphone.

"You can't be serious," Mlle. Lefevre hissed, victorious over the loudspeaker, stalking back behind her barricade of desk. She would never understand how Mr. LaCroix expected this great sponge-cake buffoon to keep her safe. Of all the abuses and wrongs Los Angeles's temperamental magistrate had done her, this one she took the most personally. "Don't you see? Look what has come waltzing in, brazen as it pleases! This will not stand; not at all. I insist you take her into custody," which would be mercy for some over-entitled mongrel who strode, knowingly or not, into the multinational that deigned to spare her worthless life. Harris was spitting curses and trying to take weight off her injured foot without losing complete credibility. It was a difficult task in comparison with how her Toreador adversary rebuckled an ankle strap and pressed flat the two loose strands of smooth hair. "Stop standing there and do so! Do so this instant."

The guard with the rabbit cheeks blinked again before stepping forward. He held up both palms, a treaty and a gesture to settle down. Neither particularly did. "Don't you worry, Ms. Lefevre. I've got this under control. Listen, Missy," Chunk explained to Lily, too busy with her toes to put much into diplomacy. She hopped a bit. Joelle looked wroth with the world from her spotless perch. "I don't know what's going on, here, but if this fine lady says you're trespassing, you're trespassing. I'm going to have to ask you to take a step back from Ms. Lefevre, there, and calmly vacate the premises. Otherwise I'll have to radio this in to the station." Bernie's hand, more rounded than tough, patted the walkie-talkie at his belt for dramatic effect. It was never a bad idea to open nonviolent negotiations before introducing threats - Big Bro always said so. His older brother was NYPD. Besides, even if he wasn't: Bernie was a gentleman. Though he was also, and best not forget, licensed by the California State department to exercise moderate application of force. "I'm sure there's no need to arrest anybody. We're all reasonable people, and we don't want to cause any trouble for each other on this nice night. Isn't that right?"

Lily almost bared her stubby set of eye teeth at him, but realized mid-snarl what she was doing and instead licked her lips. "_Arrest_ me?" the girl squawked, gaping for words. Her face went a watery, furious red. She wasn't sure why she cared so much. God, she shouldn't have; it was impersonal, inane, unrepaid. It was something she _had_ to do. "Arrest _me_? I'm not doing anything wrong! I came here for help. Look, you're a cop; if you're arresting people, let's talk about obstruction of justice. I need to see someone. Someone _else_." Neck taut, nostrils twitching, Prince LaCroix's rattled greeter looked fit to slap this troublemaking little deviant right in the unpainted mouth – but not until after she'd finished fixed her hair. Ringed digits busied themselves with glossing down the already perfect gingerbread bun. It bought Lily a few seconds of time. "I didn't come in here trying to start anything. I came about a situation. If she's going to stand in the way of an emergency, I'll do what I-"

"Ma'am," Officer Chunk instructed, poise never faltering, "please lower your voice and take a deep breath. I need to document this incident before we can proceed to legalities." He reached for a notepad, bratwurst fingers tugging it out of his back pocket. They flattened crinkles out of lined yellow paper. "Believe me, I don't want to make problems for anybody, and I appreciate you have your own concerns. Better we just keep our heads, talk about this, then all of us can just go home. Now, would one of you ladies kindly explain to me what happened so I can make a record for my superiors?"

Lily and Joelle both bawked at the same time. Officer Chunk was already scribbling industriously into his flip booklet.

"Whoa, whoa. Easy, there. One at a time, now," the guard said, firmly, but making sure to keep his directives understanding. It was real important not to set yourself up as the enemy. This job was all about a fine line between trusted confidant and respected leader. You had to be gentle with 'em, especially some of 'em of the female persuasion, but not _too_ soft - else they might forget about those hard-earned rank pips shining on your breastbone. That was always an embarrassing state of affairs for everyone. Bernie knew the power of a neatly-pressed uniform all too well these nights.

"I am going to put this as clear as I possibly can for you," the Toreador sniffed - she was indignation, condescension, superiority complex and quiet loathing. "It is very simple. This foolish little girl does not have an appointment with Mr. LaCroix, and apparently can't be bothered to make one." A condemnation of eyes beneath thick lashes. "So she has concocted some outrageous story in order to get attention. Remove her and I can continue my work."

"Like I said, Ms. Lefevre: everything's under control. You can get right back to your duties, there. I'll take this from here." Joelle might have been furious if either of them were worth it. Because they were so evidently not, she disengaged without another word, snort or jab, clacking back into her chair on rickety heels. The man's brows climbed his perspiring forehead, inching towards that slick Q-ball he called a cranium. "Now, let's go over some things. You claimed to have business here, young lady, but I've got an employee telling me otherwise. You realize that I take Ms. Lefevre at her word. Is what she says the way you see it?"

"Like hell it is," Lily rumbled, double-taking at how much she sounded like Ms. Woeburne in that instant. Serena's half-menace forced her to remember the urgency through climbing anger. The thin-blood's hands clenched against pale jeans, temper crackling, a sound in her head like breakfast cereals she used to eat. "I already told this bitch I-"

"There's no need for profanity, ma'am."

"Sorry," Harris spluttered, compromise to a policeman's stare and her obstacle's haughty squeak. "But I did already say that I didn't need to see your boss. I'm only here because my friend works for the LaCroix Foundation. And I think she's been..." The explanation fumbled. Lily wanted to run out of that apartment screaming 9-1-1, wanted aid from every squad car that went beeping by. She wished painfully to share this horrible responsibility with someone who might actually be in a position to solve it, but wasn't positive someone like her ought to talk about this to anyone lacking the live, wet-earth smell of _Kindred_.

Officer Chunk considered himself a Renaissance man of sorts. Which was why he generously ignored her accidental "bitch," pocketed his notebook, and bounced the click-pen to a close. Both hands grappled nonchalantly off his belt. It was a six-shooter's stance. "Well, missy – you understand I'm going to have to escort you off the site," Bernie clarified, almost apologetically. "For security purposes. But, circumstances being what they are, I don't think there's any need to make this official." He waited patiently for tears and choked relief. Relief looked more like a wordless stare. "Now, I don't know what you're doing up and about so late out on the streets, ma'am. And to be honest, maybe it's better that way. You still have to leave, but see: I'm like any Old-Fashioned Frank in that I just don't feel right about sending a kid like yourself packing all on her lonesome in the wee hours, there. Can I escort you safely to public transportation, or to your automobile?"

Lily, who had never heard of "Old-Fashioned Frank," regarded the rotund kine as though he'd just burst out in song. Her brain felt like was tripping up a flight of stairs. "Um," she said, lips smacking. "No, no – that's OK. Really. I'll go. I'll just go. I'll be fine."

Chunk must've heard nerves and misinterpreted them as fear, because he didn't relent. "Don't worry, young lady – it's all a part of the job." An expression of gallantry. "My shift doesn't technically end for another fifteen, but if you'll only give me a minute, I'll check with Ms. Lefevre, here…"

One glittering hand whipped up from behind the lobby desk, brushing him off like shoulder crumbs.

"I told you she wouldn't mind. That's all set, then." Lily watched with increasing dismay as her self-appointed chaperone waddled over to those daunting double-doors, hefted them open, and waved forward. The snort he gave might've sounded snappish. It was more a product of the Bernie's endurance level. "There's a bus stop just down the block here. I'll see you off, and then from there, you can just get yourself home," he puffed, swollen chin tilting toward the cool night sidewalk outside. "After you, ma'am."

Lily could feel a Toreador smirk at her back when she left.

It was horribly hot for a winter. Some things never change.

Outside, there was a strangled sense of failure, of needing to turn back beneath the tall black figureheads of Venture Tower. Lamposts glared from the corporate garage next door; across the street, gargoyles loomed atop the public library, brick sentinels painted in false gold. None of them offered any promises. Lily hadn't looked at those statues much, even before she'd died; she did not look at the huffing human being behind her, footfalls slapping, love-handles and caricature nobility; she didn't see the traffic skreak by. The worst thing about this city was the climate, static save for when it storms. Three-hundred days of sunshine wanting to kill. She'd always hated it. She'd always missed real November and the way snow stuck to windows like these; it was about to blizzard back home, so said weather reports the girl still checked, not certain why. Bare shoulders felt like they'd burn in the dark. Awfully, melting-skin hot; not an icicle or early frost to make this ugly concrete something different. Her bones seemed to hurt in thundershower air. Rain would only make it thicker, only make the temperature broil.

Perpetual summer - some things ought to remember to the way they were before.

"So, ah. What exactly was all that you were saying about your friend, there, missy?" Chunk asked. He'd caught up to her in the interim between accepting defeat and embracing depression. The officer coughed to regulate his breathing. Lily wiped at her forehead as though there'd be sweat. "You get yourself in real trouble or something? If it's an emergency like you say, better not stay quiet, is my professional opinion. I'm sure the fine people of LAPD can offer you protection of some kind over at the station downtown." Bernie knew how hard it sometimes was even for honest kids to avoid the gang-bangers and general riffraff. He was not a judgmental badge.

"It's not me," Lily repeated, rear teeth scraping uncomfortably in their apprehension. "My boss. She's... I mean, she's a good person. I think. I don't know her all that well, I just…" _Swallow_. "You know how good people can get sometimes get caught up in big messes?"

"I reckon I'd know a lot better if you gave me some background."

Harris inhaled for the brace that oxygen gave, the cradle of lungs. The pressure came out in a wheeze. She couldn't imagine this person - wilting comb-over, collar sticking to his throat, gruff breathing - constituted much of a threat, but there was no need to take unnecessary risks. Then again, could you call it 'unnecessary?' She had to report Serena's abduction to _someone_, consequences in mind. Kine police weren't accessible, blockaded by the nature of their condition; LaCroix Enterprises effectively stonewalled all appeals. Her short list of alternatives was swiftly diminishing. There had to be a way to tap the resources for getting missing people found, to gather manpower. All she needed was one outlet. Maybe she could make up some sort of intricate lie…?

"I can't talk about it here. Where's your squad car?" Lily asked, glancing towards the parking complex sandwiched a block down, fishing for well-known crimson-and-blue.

Bernie chewed on his pen cap. He'd taken it out to scratch notes down. "It's, um - it's parked somewhere else right now. At the station. Look: let's just set ourselves down, here, and you can tell me the full story." The officer nodded towards a sad-looking bus stop. The Caitiff pondered turning around and bolting for it. But the window came and went unchecked; minutes later, she was surprised, and a little confused, to find herself sitting on the empty bench, cheap wood chilly against bare calves. An ambulance howled somewhere nearby. Gasoline spills and shitty imitation tacos made her stomach ache. Chunk – that ridiculous, plumped up pot-sticker of human being – was gazing at her with a look of expectation and superhero concern. Hell… it couldn't _really_ hurt, could it?

Indecision had to go. The thin-blood – reservations caving under guilt, debts, and a wicked dose of embarrassment – sucked in one useless breath and sunk canines into her bottom lip. "OK, fine," she got out, hands clenching. "Yeah, I'll tell you. But you have to promise to keep this a secret."

The need to be discreet made Officer Krantz look even more like a pastry puff. "You can count on me, ma'am," he promised. Three full taxis passed them without stopping. One #34 bus had already flashed its headlights down the street.

"My friend, she… um. She works for the government." Lily realized how sad it was when a blood-quaffing monster could convince no one else to give them the time of day. Chunk seemed as though he might protest on the grounds that all policepersons were proud members of This Great Nation's executive branch, but she cut off a lecture before it could stick. "No, you don't get it. I mean _the_ government. She's a real higher-up. CIA, maybe. I'm not sure - maybe higher. But no one else can know about her. Ever. For any reason. Compromising her might jeopardize homeland security!" It was the decade's proverbial big guns.

Bernie gave her a barefaced look of shock. Lily couldn't quite believe how seriously he'd taken her corny lie, either. Rolf had been right. Incendiary words, stacked in close succession; pulling the figurative wool over humans was easier than poking holes in kids' Halloween baskets, and probably followed by equally tame consequences. Who knew if he would be useful? She had to do something. She had to try.

Chances were grim; it probably wouldn't work; but Lily could live with herself and move on if she just _tried_.

"I was supposed to meet Serena a few days ago. Run some laundry, clean up for her. I'm a housekeeper - that's what I do. But that didn't happen, because she never cancelled, or called me, or contacted in any way. I finally just went over today. God, it's... it's a mess. Somebody broke into her apartment and took her, I think." It still felt surreal to say so. Colorless moonlight was shining stupidly against pavement, streetlamp glass, Chunk's extra flap of neck. She could scarcely believe this was about to roll off her tongue, but: "Do you want to – you know? Come take a look at the place, or something? I was just over there, and I brought the keycard with me."

There hadn't been time enough to remove it from her pants pocket before Bernie straightened up – eyes narrowed, valiance sharpened – and proceeded to make one thing very clear:

Officer Chunk was on the case.


	15. Houdini

**Houdini **

One could only chew through so much duct tape.

Serena's jowls felt like they had liquidated. Her face was a painful mush with the consistency of tacky wet plaster. If there was still a jawbone somewhere inside, she thought, it must've been mostly paste. Somehow, though, Ms. Woeburne's teeth kept gnawing away – kept chewing – and with every bite, there were neat weak patches wearing slowly through the makeshift handcuffs. She'd thin the stickiness from her wrists until she might snap them clear. This progress even seemed admirable: one roll was down to roughly half its original girth, thready strings popped, strips sagging like old skin.

Good riddance, too, as professional duct tape was not only hell on the jaw, but it tasted absolutely terrible.

The victory of free movement – still far-off enough to frustrate a young Ventrue – was now visible, at least. LaCroix's Childe had been racked at this uncomfortable horizontal for the past three hours, since Nines Rodriguez abandoned her to a wasting death. Distant concerns (namely starvation) were banished for the time being, however. It was leagues more important to focus, to prioritize, to tackle each individual objective building towards escape… the first of which being _stand up_. Once Serena managed to tear an arm free, she would be able to tumble halfway out of this God-awful chair and right herself. The notion sparked a fizzle of optimism that kept sore gums gnashing on despite their ache.

What next? Ms. Woeburne honestly couldn't give much of a damn – not whilst residual blood was still rushing to her head in great, disorienting pulses. She puffed a sodden fork of hair off a badly-bruised nose.

If she was forced into making a guess (something the Foreman hated to do), Serena estimated her furniture prison would hold out until sunrise. This would delay further liberation plans – an exasperating realization – but it would also prevent Anarch interrogators from carrying out any unfortunate second-thoughts. Which was decidedly a good thing. Basements, blunt weapons and blunter insults, screws digging into her spine... the entire encounter was preciously thuggish, a misadventure in crime, but Ms. Woeburne had no intentions of sticking around for encores. It was not her prerogative to withstand another week of abuse. And, frankly, she was getting very fed-up.

It was a good substitute for 'terrified.' She would not acknowledge terrified. Allowing room for terror would destroy any chance of survival or dignity the captive Ventrue had.

She yanked out a gunky length of tape vein with canine teeth, spat it aside, and had just returned for another bite when an off-key sound distracted her.

Standing alone, it wasn't a particularly threatening sound. Had Serena's situation been a little less dire and a little more upright, she probably wouldn't have invested much in the hushed squeak of hinges – would've ignored the scuff of soles creeping concrete. The ancilla had certainly shrugged off more menacing noises in these past few nights. Hell, had there been anything interesting taking place within this grungy and austere prison, she likely could've overlooked the brief sliver of moonlight - a blade that lanced across her furrowed brows before disappearing, again, behind that ominous door.

But Ms. Woeburne spotted it.

As did she spot the vampire – copper-haired, unshaven, undeniably Brujah male – wearing a poker scowl that failed to cloak his malicious intent.

After bouts with Free-State knives and Free-State guns and oh, let us not shortchange the untiring Free-State fists, Serena had no reason to be particularly impressed by captor novelty, particularly not when said captor's knobby hands were rapidly clenching then unclenching themselves, a tension at his tattered khaki pockets. Her blasé was no surprise. Archetypes were the standard of communistic peoples: soldier under scars, bar full of smoke, leader with a switchblade and a propaganda look. There were pockmark scars and there was vagabond indecisiveness in the doorway. These were the personalities defined by petty violence, the unconscionables and unspoken-of. Adolescent stubble clustered like fire ants upon the boy's cheeks, small sprouts in patches, uncommitted to a full beard. His t-shirt crinkled as though having never been ironed once in its lackluster little life. His eyes were a pine color, mundane contrasts to a terrible hair dye of mineral red. No, Serena was not at all amused.

"And who in the hell are-?" Ms. Woeburne's demands were met with violence.

That is what Brujah do when they cannot find answers for the questions you ask: they hit, hurt. There was hardly use wondering precisely why. Insurgents needed no justification to do you harm, but even then, she had given them special reasons - reasons to hate, to want her gone. Serena should have predicted it. Perhaps she also should have felt unease at being discovered with tape glue dotting her puffy lips - might've felt _very_ uneasy, at that - but somehow, it didn't seem to factor. The Ventrue's messy preludes to escape went unnoticed. Instead, he was glaring very deliberately somewhere in the vicinity of her breastbone, expression pursed with rapid, anxious vacillation. Needless breath twitched the sparse touch of a moustache. A small man, a body of perhaps one-fifty, but she was powerfully disturbed by it. Serena quickly decided that she did not care for that body or the sort of fixation on its unkempt face. No, no, not at all.

Without explaining who the hell he was or why, the little bastard pounced full atop Ms. Woeburne's chest.

Her chair banged where it had been thrown on the cold linoleum tile.

You might venture a guess - because she did not like to - as to what, exactly, Anarch whelps stand to gain by ripping out Serena Woeburne's throat. Her hands are crumpled and not terribly strong. It is not an act of murder, and so she cannot call it simple revenge; you may kill a Ventrue easily enough with sharp edges, with neck breaks, with false bargains and worse confessions. This is another matter, a creature matter. Her knee bucks but does not find a real mark. In the game of Jyhad, there is a corporate bureau stacked between the Foreman and execution; but here, there is only the sallow flesh of her neck that stands alone between teeth and thick, pungent pedigree blood. _Blue_ was an insult and a nobility claim. Neither translation made the taste and power of Elders' Childer less than what it was. Her limbs strain and pull to liberate themselves beneath those that would crush them down. Yes, Ms. Woeburne was inexperienced, immature, unripe – but she was descended directly from an old-generation tyrant, a rich meat flavor of vitae. Snapping her small bones was a minor satisfaction in comparison. Splitting her carotid yielded the eight-pint prize of moguls and dynastic cells.

_Diablerie_. The word evoked death sentences, even among peripheral peoples, the nothing-ones. It was a thought to be thunk without consequences. But morality discussions were meaningless to the woman now; dismissed by a Free-State chief, here she was defenseless: a strapped-down blood thermos with aftertaste like fillet mignon.

Serena bore the sloppy razor burn into her collarbone with no panic – it was too late for panic, too lethal – but a madcap annoyance, a disgusted offense. She twisted all of the joints she could control. One vulgar hand was pressing the woman's jaw aside, leaving bright pink finger marks, left temple shoved against the ground. Mousy hair snagged between his digits. Screws nipped Ms. Woeburne's arching back. She must've shouted something – some exclamation between surprise, outrage and scream. There was a thunderous echo when her chair lunged against the concrete, breaking through tile. Metal screeched. Teeth clacked loudly within her head. Frighteningly loud – like a gunshot held between her lips.

Then everything started _ringing_ and it became very hard to move at all.

Serena struggled in unconscious silence for the first few moments. Her chin swiveled, grimace fierce and hateful; dark tendrils whipped with every useless turn. That clammy mitt kept grabbing for and smashing it. The Ventrue's resistance was more like a stubborn child trying to spit out her medicine than an attack victim. It did not feel like there were incisors in her skin. It felt like great absence of self. She could not use her arms or feet or elbows. She did not know why she did not scream again.

It was when her blouse collar ripped that all that sterling Camarilla indignation – every self-defense tactic, every horror replaced with snobbish disapproval – began to burn away. A maraca of fear rattled up through the horridness of it. _'This cannot really be happening?' _Mortality peppered the Ventrue's instinct – a violent wave of dizziness, a churn that made lime eyes cross internally, externally, behind their lids. Her head began to pound in vicious bolts. _'No, no, no! Not this! Not eaten. Not snuffed out to better some worthless Anarch!' _Heinous and illegal though diablerie might have been, she could not imagine there'd be any admissible proof of guilt. Would the perpetrator's masters even punish him? No one could allow this. No one could permit it, surely; no politic excused this worst destruction. But the truth was apparent as it needed to be with palm heel on her face, canines piercing. They had left her here, left her. No one had come or cared. Death was not punches or bullets or losing Nines Rodriguez's game. His mouth smelled like a stale Friday evening, liquor and indolence; his free hand was digging rudely into the pliable pallet of stomach near her liver.

The only hope was to swallow the horror. She choked it down, digested the traitorous compulsion to submit, tried to see again. Serena was about cry out – squirmed in a desperate effort to pitch her shoulder into the boy's bottom jaw – when she noticed something miraculous.

In the hazy muddle of it all, her right hand had burst free.

Ms. Woeburne flicked out her thumb and gouged it deeply into the Brujah's closest eye.

He certainly was not expecting _that _– bottom-feeding son-of-a-bitch – and retracted from her, a regurgitating python, fangs carmine with cooling blood. There a cold rush of strength beneath the lethargy of being fed upon. The intruder had won himself three greedy swigs – just enough to make his catch woozy, to damage her, but not to incapacitate a good Party trooper. Serena was a good Party trooper. She did not dally, twisting gracelessly out of the chair, clambering to tender shins and then upon her naked feet. _Purple toenails_. There were bruises making everything horridly sore but she did not let them. His shut eye had made a vomitous pop inside its socket and lost a mix of salt, mucous and thin red wetness. That stab had dislodged it. The lightweight anchor of seat was still tethered to Ms. Woeburne's left wrist. She struggled to detach it while her enemy roared pain, but could not; there was not enough time. There never was.

Legs clanged gawkily between attacker and victim; before that scrawny ankle-biter of man could regroup, Serena formed a reckless defense. When he lunged forward – salivating, slack-lipped hound – she swung her makeshift bludgeon. Steel collided with skull plates in an echoing, metallic _'thwack!_' They both shuddered away from the impact. This time it was his blood – not hers – that rained in droplets onto the floor.

His forearms were a dull, throbbing, frightening blue. She did not give a damn about them. Woeburne straightened, stiffened, and channeled the stuff that made her a Ventrue, that kept them alive.

There was no opportunity to untangle herself. The aggressor had already recovered, one working eye refocusing from that stubborn, smarting blow. Scarlet darkened locks already a fierier color. Contusions rose beneath erratic facial hair. Crimson dribbled from his tear duct and one fresh cut leaked across his cheek – they were grim reflections of how a better-smelling stock smeared the woman's neckline. God, she had pushed it right out, crushed deep into the sclera. Serena could not be revolted. She grabbed at her throat, fumbling for the two untidy puncture wounds. They were ragged, ebbing scarlet, but still fairly small, and Fortitude made them smaller still. _'Yes, wouldn't want to spill, would we.' _ He'd had ample reason to make sure his blueblood shotglass didn't lose her precious vitae all over the ground instead of in his mouth.

Serena knew what penance the law required for this crime– understood it was a fatal misstep – but procedure didn't matter in that moment. She had laissez-faired with Anarch brutality until her pride shrunk, her core hungered. They did not bother with courts or evidence. This was free-exchange, and he wouldn't be lucky enough for a trial.

Holding the folding chair between them like a riot shield, she surged forward, flattening its back beam against her enemy's face. Both the man's hands threw up a barricade. His calves buckled easily, head still swimming from the last hit. Before either predator could react, they were both sprawled across the floor; Serena hefted every pound of her weight down, sandwiching him between tile and cheap metal. They had fallen right on that death-promise centerpiece drain. Her knees fumbled for leverage. Her toes bent in an effort to find solid, unslippery ground.

One fist grappled for her forearm – but before it could find strength to upend them, Ms. Woeburne bowed forward and sunk deeply into an exposed square of Brujah throat.

He made a sound like a cough and a burble and the spit of a run-down cat.

The young Anarch's essence tasted quite poorly – energizing, sodium-packed, a spit of afterlife not yet taken to flame. That made it easier. Foul flavors underlined the wrongness; unappetizing textures echoed the importance of not taking every quart. Serena would've foregone feeding entirely and just _bit_ had her keepers not half-starved her; as it was, hunger overrode pickiness. Woeburne filled her mouth twice with salty, bubbling sustenance. This was all she could spare - not from fullness, but before the fodder struck back.

Once his fingers pried themselves from beneath the chair, Serena ditched conservativeness, and simply crunched down until every molar touched through that gruesome sheet of skin.

She shook her head like a bull terrier.

One fierce twist of thirty-two Ventrue teeth, and the gullet had been laid open. Four twists and it hung in shredded tatters, blood painting her face in a warlike red patina. It was the most vile – the most animal – thing the woman had ever done, but God help Serena because she presently could not make herself care. Foam must've been rising from her muzzle, gore frothing up. She squeezed her lashes tight to deflect anything that might spurt into them. They seemed to lock like this. By the time Ms. Woeburne managed to relax her facial muscles again, the boy's esophagus was gaping open to tubular blues, mangled far beyond repair.

Diablerie was forbidden. Death by bloodletting was not. Serena stood up, bare legs trembling beneath their drenched skirt, watching her would-be murderer's dark stare bulge and turn to glossy milk. Shock chased off delay. Serena was certain she'd be sick, but instead, terrifying blankness: she pulled the key ring from his pants pocket. She used its nicks to remove any remaining tape. And that done, she turned it slowly in the oversized lock, and she stepped out into free California air, blood still dripping from her jowls.

Ms. Woeburne emerged in a nondescript alley. There were no familiar street signs. There was no sky through the crowded tenement sides and dimmed streetlamps. There was no night wind and a stagnant chill. She was alone, save for a stray Siamese that took one sniff in her direction before skittering off into someone's trash bin.

It was ten past five. Forty minutes to dawn, if she was lucky.

She wiped her face in both hands and shut the door behind her.

And Serena fled barefoot, the soles of her feet and the color of her toes undaunted by broken glass.


	16. The County Sheriff

**The County Sheriff **

Three o'clock in the morning, and there was only one decent place to buy buckshot.

"I see you've up-scaled since the last time I been in here," the man observed, tossing a magazine and a display carton back onto the countertop. It was a mild compliment that earned mild gratitude from this dim outlet's owner.

"Could say that. I got a killer deal from my best supplier downstate; not exactly legal, but what the hell is these days? More where that came from, too," added the graying ammunitions dealer, flicking a nod towards his storage room. Opaque ghoul eyes crinkled happily at the two vampires rifling through semi-auto stocks. Gabriel Milam hadn't met the small fry until tonight – all beach hair, idle whistles and slingshot grins – but the older one was a longstanding client. He usually skulked in every couple months with an easy smile and fistful of cold cash, giving no explanation, filling his flatbed with bullets and whatever explosives there were to be had. No clue where it all went, but he had precisely no business asking. Kindred politics weren't something a wise blood-addict stuck their nose in if they intended on surviving. Gabe was very intent on that. His age was deceptive and his ties were purely professional. He kept an aerosol can and a lighter beneath the front desk.

"Tell you what," the dealer bargained, watching more closely than his sharp chin and bushy brows let on. Blunt teeth glinted under the sheeted overhead bulb. He had just enough ponytail to look like an asshole who might kill somebody. "Since I landed a good bargain and you've been a loyal customer, you put in a long-term order with me, I'll float a fifteen percent discount on the whole bundle."

"Throw in that Twelve you tried to sell me last month and we got a deal."

"For you? No problem." Milam rummaged for his rusted key ring, plucked the appropriate piece, and headed to a lock shelf. One brown eye narrowed as he unloaded the shotgun; cataracts filmed the other in odd, gluespill blue. The Brujah went back to the catalog. He leant his elbows on the wood counter and flipped a couple pages. He thought about what probably wasn't listed there.

"Hey, Nines…" Kent-Alan was balancing a military-grade rifle on one shoulder, assuming his best SWAT pose: one knee bent, theatrical grimace. It was just a model. Fledgling acted like he was some kind of threatening. "Whaddya' say? You think I'd attract too much attention slinging this old boy around?" His leader snorted.

"Kick on that thing would blow your arms off, kid."

"But you've got to admit that I look epic," Playboy shot back gleefully, swinging it around in a wide Rambo arc. Rodriguez shoved the nozzle out of his face with a blithe expression of annoyance.

"Then blow your arms off. What do I care? I'm looking at something," he grunted. Kent-Alan took a few imaginary headshots at a few imaginary Kuei-Jin menacing across the street.

"Lucky you came in tonight." Milam used his foot to slide over and position a short ladder. It cracked open, and he climbed to the very top. One long, gamey arm reached high for a hanging gun. Nines scratched a name into the paper register; it was not _Rodriguez_. "Not to sound mercenary, but I've been getting a shipload of requests lately. Think I'm feeding half the gangs in LA these days. Next thing it'll be the police knocking, you know, department people trying to buy up my goods," went the joke, not that it wasn't true. "Nasty business going on in Chinatown, speaking of. Tong busts and whatnot. Me, I keep out of that mess; hope you can do the same."

"How hard would it be to get me some more astrolite?" the man asked him, only half out-of-the-blue.

"Ah, now we're talking about equipment. I've got another can in the basement. Give me a minute; I'll grab it for you."

"How hard would it be to get me a _lot_ of astrolite?"

Gabe looked back and climbed down with the shotgun in his hands.

"Working on a project, are we?" The Brujah browsed without much change on the casual, serious expression. It wasn't the traditional face of a man who planned havoc. "I've got a local contact for that, but he's an East Coast boy, kind of a prick. It'll take me some time to procure anything. Give me three, four weeks and I'll see what I can do for you..." No names in this trade. Not real ones, anyway. For some reason, Milam thought, this guy didn't look like he needed one. "My friend."

"I appreciate that," he said, a statement that seemed genuine, though Gabe had no reason to think it was.

"I think I'm gonna get it." Kent stepped up, buyer's elation, and set the wicked automatic between them on that counter. His smile was full of teeth and excited in a mean, childish light beneath the fronds of off-gold. The gun clicked quietly. Nines teetered on the verge of rolling his eyes. "Only live twice, right?"

"Buy what you need. We better get on," Rodriguez said. The digital wall clock read 3:15 AM. Everything smelled a little like vodka in here. There was nothing to cover the cheap hardwood floors or black walls musty with insulation. Cars rolled by intermittently outside, a source of anxiety to a man committing higher crime than illegal purchase, concealed carry. He reached into his pocket for a wallet, fuller this evening than it usually was. Nines felt through those foggy front windows what was tantamount to a chill. "Sun'll be up before too long, and we have to get a lot squared away. This is not exactly the most problematic part of our night."

The Toreador grinned, bloody knowingness. His Baron, however, was far less amused about the hostage ordeal. A liable politician - though he hated thinking of himself in those terms - concerned himself with conflict resolution more than counting coup. Killing Camarilla Childer was a dangerous business. It became more dangerous when your temper boiled over at the lip of some poorly-chosen words, but mad as being dubbed _Prince_ made him, his earlier outburst had been half-planned. Brujah had a legacy almost as long and almost as ugly as that blueblood imperialism. Wasn't always a bad idea to show some of that overplayed rage, dramatic effect; stir a little anxiety before returning with new olive branches. Serena Woeburne proved a tougher nut to crack than most. Push came to shove, still your standard Scepter: old Chicago Boy zeal and selective memory, self-serving doctrines and smart fucking mouth. Best to let her sweat out some of that fix-the-world spitfire before he ended up snapping more than the brat's fingers. Do-no-wrong mentality, king-complex and $200 barbershop fees; suit authority and unworn shoes, had a nation or two at their feet and kept stepping. Shit, Nines hated talking to these Ventrue.

Nobody knows better than a Ventrue - and nobody better than the Ventrue who told you so.

Extracting information was only the first half of this problem. Show your tools, rhetoric, dehumanize; another Brujah taught him that; fear only worked when the threat of pain still did. That was an easy formula, least until they croaked, but hardly the end of the story. There was also the unsettling predicament of how to cleanly dispose of her afterwards. Rodriguez used the term "dispose" loosely; no milk spilt over smoking a company bitch, but he preferred not to face the repercussions. How does one go about cutting free a Prince's bouncing baby girl without owning up to armies? Sending her scuttling back to daddy might result in worse blowback than simply dusting the Childe - looked likely to, Woeburne's vindiction was any indication. Honestly, he'd have rather whacked her from a distance, but the nature of their collision was an unfortunate coincidence that merited personal investigation and tied his hands. And they _had _to know the logistics of bad intelligence, of freak accidents, of mistaken identity; best-case scenario, maybe fling some legal pressure back on the ivory tower. It was a risky bet, but necessary. The very last thing LA's Anarchs needed at present was another heap of radioactive political fallout plopped square on their doorstep. Maybe he could exert some blackmail on that Foreman; find a way to shut her up, given that LaCroix wasn't already wise.

_Wolf-Prince_. More trouble than she was worth.

"All right, then," Milam chirped, vaguely a Queenslander. He returned with two neatly-taped care packages of ammunition, a wrapped pump-action, a case for the rifle and a printed receipt. "Your order's sorted out – here's what you wanted for the road, and I'll call when the rest is ready to ship. Will do on the fireworks. Thanks for your business, gents."

Nines paid for everything, thrust all but the shotgun he'd bought at Kent-Alan, and headed to the replacement hauler. Skelter procured it two nights ago; red-on-black, flashy as fuck, but the truck had a flatbed and enough room to make trips worthwhile. Short drive, at least. Fortunately a bit shorter than Rodriguez's fuse as Playboy started fiddling with dials, radio channels, window levers. Bullets of various calibers rattled in the backseat, another card on the Griffith Park stack. Potholes rumbled beneath wheel treads. Damn near everything felt like a jumble of annoyances tonight, tell the truth. He supposed bringing backup was being prudent; otherwise, Rodriguez would've kicked Playboy's jolly, irritating ass to the curb hours ago. Good deputy but could've been better company for stressful nights. LA's Anarchs didn't have unstressful nights anymore. _'One of these days I'm goin' to blow a goddamn vein,' _the Brujah thought to himself, only half-joking.

They parked on the side of a deserted city road. "Come on, then. I'd rather make this quick."

"Wanna' race?"

"I'm serious. Hang on to that gun and don't fall asleep," Nines warned. "This should go smooth. _Should_. I'm not expecting trouble tonight, but I ain't got armor on, and I don't want some Venture rescue party shooting me in the ass. Is that getting through?"

"Loud and clear." Kent-Alan pulled out his pistol for good measure; shot a jackass wink and a deputy cluck. "Protecting your ass, boss."

Stupid fucking kid. He was all right.

The alley they stepped into was familiar: inconspicuous slum, cramped apartments; tight, murky corners; slack garbage collection. Arson burnt-out half these tenements six, seven years ago - left a street of new paint over charred wood, lots of homes turned to cheap rental storage for who the fuck knows. Their ugly basement wasn't the only one. Some of the windows had never been fixed. Urban deterioration, common story; breathe deep, still smelled like a goddamn fire. Promised a grim trip. The walk was two blocs only, but its shadows overhung, scents a hash of lingering ash and rot, something unsettling for flammable monsters. These two pressed on quickly. Kent lagged several yards behind for a better peripheral, eyes sharper than his attitude let on. Fortunately for factions fond of abandoned neighborhoods, there was little enough thru-traffic that no one interrupted, and no one took a shot. Nothing eventful slowed them down. One rat, one sickly cat, and that was all. You could barely even get nervous - three minutes moving, and there was the unmarked locker door, stamped _condemned_, nicked thrice to indicate its uses. It looked exactly as it had when he'd left it last. Rodriguez reached for his key as Playboy rapped knuckles-to-metal, an arrogant little knock to give its occupant a warning heads-up. The lock turned audibly. The prison opened dark.

_Surprised_ didn't quite describe the expression on Nines's face.

"Holy shit," exploded from Kent-Alan's mouth, and he stopped so short that the Baron bumped into him. Anarch footsoldier of five years lay in a sidewinder-'S' of blood, drying into tile glue, most still steaming in hot winter humidity. His jugular dangled impotently through all the siren red dripping off his face. If there was a human face under there, it didn't appear to be much at this point; Preacher Young twitched limply in the centerpiece, soundless, no voicebox. It looked like a lawnmower blade had whirled right into throat.

"Oh, fuck," Nines cussed, but by the time he moved to shove K-Al aside, the Toreador had already moved.

_What the hell happened here? _Rodriguez wasn't sure if Playboy said it or he thought it, but no answer came from their downed man, whose tongue had swollen too large inside his broken jaw. Wouldn't have mattered, anyway. The wounded Brujah gaped fishlike around what might have been residual aggression, anything he could manage to see, or a plea for help. He was maybe a handbreadth from comatose; everything bled from the kid's eyes, skin blanched blue, liquid life puddled around him. Couldn't see that shitty scraggle of beard on on his chin through all the scarlet there. There was a terrible meat smell in the windowless torture chamber. Kent had never looked so goddamn scared in his entire life.

Beside them sat a dented folding chair with duct tape still hanging off its armrests.

"Fuck," Nines spat again, just to hammer the point home.

Baron LA pulled his gun and spun around to the exit. There were no half-crazed Ventrue left hiding outside. There was no one to fire back.

_Too late. _It made everything tingle a heart-beat dismay from the hollow of Rodriguez's chest to the nerves in his hands. Too late.

Kent-Alan had not noticed the way their chief darted outside, head swiveling, steel color sharpening to knifepoints in each peeled eye. He stood stiff a few feet away from the spill of a vampire. Inane kid thought he might scream for a moment, but lunged forward instead, horror-struck, fumbling to aid his comrade in the primary way available. "Oh, shit! Oh, _shit,_" he was still shouting when Nines stepped back in, humor knocked cartwheeling out of Playboy's distressed voice. Blood soaked his pant knees on the dirty tile. He scrambled for a sharp edge to split his forearm. Nothing came up. "Hey. _Hey_. Look at me. Try keeping awake, man! We're going to put you together. We're going to..." The Toreador was breathing in want of a solution and a razor for the thick blue arteries beneath his hand. His palms couldn't make themselves untangle the mess of cords stinking there on this barren basement floor. "What the shit _happened_ to you?"

Rodriguez stared at the flounder of carnage – felt icebergs pulse down his neck, across vertebrae, into both clenched fists. Fine hairs stood. _'How?' _It was a horrible thing, a disastrous accident - worse in the measure of an escaped political problem than the dead guard, but you couldn't say that to the people you lead. Bad consequences drove his mind in tight circles. _Where was it? _ Where was the trip; the security hole or the scheduling flaw? Something went haywire to deliver this madhouse. Nines knew Preacher had been given a key; Damsel bitched fifteen minutes about having to reassign troops that would've otherwise been watching their properties or running their errands. He couldn't imagine what could've thrown off the rotation she'd made. There was a rotten point somewhere, broken and sick; always was. Something must have jumbled them up. Something had gone intolerably wrong.

_Something_ wasn't right.

The Brujah's arm seized and pulled Kent-Alan upright by the scruff of his ugly corduroy.

"What are you doing here, Young?" he commanded. Nines's voice was the sort of cold-unfeeling associated with Stalinists and peoples' regimes. Playboy caught the change; fraught brown eyes flickered between his chieftain and gurgling brother.

The desiccated vampire could not answer. His jowl wagged lamely, lagging in blood. Soupy bubbles leaked from the Anarch's mouth corners and opened trachea in tandem. Preacher needn't bother – Rodriguez could see a goddamn lie swirling up behind the death-gloss. _Son-of-a-bitch._ He knew.

Nines hefted his right handgun to level from hip. When the bullet hit, it burst Young's skull from the inside like a balloon. Bang, crunch, _bang_.

Too fucking late.

Kent-Alan gawped like a man hit by a Mack Truck. Maybe he screamed, instant reaction, but it was covered by the discharge and soon after there was nothing left to scream about. Only a few seconds left of that shot kid; bits tried realigning, failed, cerebrum began fizzling up through bone cracks and that was the last hurrah of a dead body dying again. Everything - Anarch, organs and grotesque disaster - smoldered dry. Preacher left little behind him but a few skeleton pieces in brackish blood.

The Toreador stared - just stared, just looked at the nothing-spot where a man he knew had been. Confusion smashed against a rubber wall of shock. Forget screaming; Playboy couldn't even find the spunk to be mad.

"What the _fuck?!_ - Nines - What the hell did you do that for-?" he began to insist, but panic constricted, waylaying the necessary phonetics. Rodriguez silenced him with a dropped hand. Kent closed his mouth. The friction-warm Desert Eagle slid back into its holster.

"No what-the-fuck about it. I don't give a goddamn who he was; I know he's a worthless traitor. You do not get leeway on treason for agreeing with me. Break our pacts with shit like this? Diablerizing prick deserved worse," Nines scoffed, boot toe nudging through a pile of black dust. He'd almost said "break my orders." _Traitorous little bastard._ True as those words were, the Toreador was distraught about them; Kent started gasping for air he couldn't use, oxygen he didn't need. There was a wild glaze over pupil and iris; dysphoria, fear emotion, a precipice of tears. Rodriguez gave him a hard look for feeling too much. "Pull something like what happened here, you don't get to count on my friendship, or yours. Beast isn't something we tolerate. Only help a beast gets from me is getting put down like the dog it is. I'd expect you to make the same call."

Kid stared blankly at those last fragments of their denmate before turning, moon-faced, knowing nothing but to follow the Baron out. He was hurled immediately and firmly into silence when the warm air of downtown descended. Neither Kindred looked at each other. Playboy's footfalls were grueling; the asphalt was rough. His nose burnt - possible he started crying and had to swallow it back down, trying to save pride - because besides pride and his rifle, what did a reject Toreador have? Nines stalked too fast to be caught up to right away. He had bigger business, more pressing concerns than one dead soldier. Better that way for the sake of moving. Kent didn't try to argue or run; his clean fingers were threaded through empty pockets, needing something with substance to grab. Beheadings turned everyone eerily dumb.

"And what are we going to do about her?" Playboy finally asked, grasping for a hardline to fill the post-trauma. His legs and shoulders were shaking. He leant wearily against the pickup when they found it again, deep lungfuls of damp air, watching his leader pause with another key-in-lock.

The Brujah's lips pulled tightly across his mouth. There was so little time for talking about this. He had not been particularly fond of or reliant upon Preacher, true, but you'd hope to trust your own better than this. Greedy son-of-a-bitch, cravings to turn cannibal. Seeing arteries unstitched from the lying gunner's neck was hard to accept when you'd been hollering at him the other day, a truth that crashed Kent-Alan; Rodriguez ran right through it. Bigger business, heavier weight. He'd buried enough Anarchs and killed enough kids not to care about the doesn't-matter ones anymore. Diablerie was Sabbat-level shit, the only fitting penalty for which being prompt execution. No respectable clan alpha would have permitted anything less. No one could pardon greedy sons-of-bitches when one wrong step could plaster your head on a firing squad wall.

And no one could pardon one bitch who got free.

Long before the title of Baron made respect as easy as good speeches, Nines Rodriguez had committed executions, and he had the littlest corporates who stood in his way hunted down. Their justifications were numerous, but the underlying reason was always the same. In a Domain with no formal law, no established precedents, no trial court, meting out punishments is no less important. You set examples. You walk the walk. There can be no room for excess mercy or soft and sympathetic hearts – not in Angeltown, and not on the Free-State iron throne.

Forgiveness was a virtue, but the Movement never marched towards the compassion it liked. You had to be harder than ten Sheriffs to be what they were.

And so Young paid his fatal pound of flesh, but tonight was hardly case closed. He'd been too late - too fucking late - and that might hurt them worse than any single death barring his own. Their hairy situation just swung full throttle and it wouldn't be resolved until their escapee got killed or curtailed. The potential drawbacks from Woeburne's interrogation had surged to legal shitstorm, category four. Rodriguez had no intentions of being on the receiving end; perhaps they could pin everything on one man's mad animal envy, claim Preacher got his claws into that Foreman in the first place, though it seemed unlikely she'd corroborate this story. You could not blame a prisoner for fleeing their shackles. But maybe Skelter, prejudiced and distrustful, had been right: they ought've dusted the Ventrue before she found an opportunity to pull a stunt like this.

Nines still didn't know what the hell he'd planned on doing with Serena Woeburne. Obviously didn't matter now – from decapitation to damage control, wherever that rotten spot was, their problem just got kicked onto a whole different field of play. He couldn't go slow on this shit. He couldn't feel bad for Kent-Alan, sitting shotgun ghost-white with hands dead on his brand new rifle. He had to speed up.

He had to call Isaac right now.

Rodriguez grabbed one of those lanky Toreador arms and took a glance at Playboy's watch. "No time to worry about it now," he said, slammed the truck door, and steered them both toward Hollywood.


	17. False Steps

**False Steps  
**

Ms. Woeburne brushed her teeth for thirty minutes straight.

Forget the badly-needed shower – Serena felt like a mudslide draining into a compost heap (and quite likely smelled like one, too) – but if something didn't burn through that layer of slime, and fast, she would rip both fangs right out of her head. Tape tack stuck, tendrils wedged stubbornly between grooves. The salty bloodstains of her Brujah assailant turned them doubly-foul. Woeburne's lips curled from the taste, a smokey tang still laden under her gums. Both top and bottom were terribly swollen, unsure if they wanted to morph purple or pale, but absolutely sure they were cracked. Clapping her teeth open and shut had become a gruesome exercise in dry mouth. Every word clicked out - until they hurt in her jowls - until the Ventrue felt like a god-damned nutcracker.

There was a frantic note to the way she poured and downed one more plastic cupful of Listerine.

"You sure you're all right?" E was standing in his studio apartment's carpetless main room, hands in pajama pockets, staring at the vampire with guarded concern.

Serena nodded swishing cheeks. They met only an hour ago, when Lily – a flower that had become much dearer in light of what she'd done – pulled up outside with Prince LaCroix's intermittently shaking Childe in her ratty Nissan's backseat. How the Caitiff had recognized Ms. Woeburne in her current position was unclear. She'd been slathered in a ghastly film of soot and blood; a tier-top first impression for family, no doubt, but the unassuming young man just offered a washcloth and a shrug. He'd worn a quietly disturbed expression since, endeavoring to stay out of their way. The Foreman had an inkling Eugene Walker did exactly whatever it was his combination Sire/lover asked of him. Still, she could hardly be a cruel judge; he'd welcomed the haggard Kindred over their sink, into their home, without any many complaints. She had barely made it up the public stairwell. Her left foot limped badly with no shoe to house it, and her fingers left bloodstains gouged into the narrow brick walls. _I'm fine,_ the Ventrue insisted when Harris tried to help her. _"I'm fine, no need, I'm fine." _

Serena gargled, spat, and applied another generous glop of paste to her toothbrush.

Coincidentally enough, Lily had been in a roundabout telephone conversation with Officer Krantz when the call came. She hadn't bid Venture Tower's doorman-turned-P.I. goodbye – leapt out of a chair when Woeburne scratched through – bungled everything. Then she hung up both without articulating a reason why, taking her apartment steps at a jog. They rendezvoused at a shitty west side payphone, ancilla drowning in somebody's musty faux-mink coat, hood draped fearfully over her obviously battered face. Two black eyes yellowed on either side of a broken nose; her bottom lip had split at least four times. Hard grime sealed dark brown hair. Lily thought of a domestic abuse victim as the reserved, imperious vampire hoarsely explained there was nowhere safe to go, certainly not home, and can she please come with her because it would be only for one night?

Their answers were clear, the Ventrue supposed, as she rinsed and scoured and spat again.

Serena was not sure why calling upon Lily Harris for help had seemed like a good idea. But she had done it - perhaps because Caitiff impotence put them beyond political betrayals, and perhaps because there really hadn't been many other people to ask.

Ms. Woeburne pulled the bristles out, now pinker than they'd ever been blue. She'd scrubbed straight into canker without feeling it. But another swish of mouthwash and her teeth were shining fresh, porcelain bathed in medicine green_. _Hygiene would never be so satisfying again, the woman observed thoughtfully, ignoring the sting and shoving her brush back to its labor.

Lily and E shared a cramped residence far east of town. The place checked-in at standard for lonesome twentysomes: one spacey, whitewashed chamber with added bathroom and a malfunctioning kitchen. It was low-rent, largely unfurnished, square beneath an airport flight path and nowhere near Serena's moneyed climate. It also smelled like Chinese fried egg and _Ocean Mist _aerosol. The eggs were a result of E's penchant for Asian takeout, and the cheap air-freshener its aftermath. This hazy mix of chemical and food gave Ms. Woeburne a dreadful sinus headache, actually, but she had greater concerns overflowing her plate than offensive atmospheres. _'Anarchs driving a lead pipe through my skull, for example.' _Oh, the little joys of playing Jyhad.

Honestly, though: Lily was darling for offering her den, a gumdrop word that tweaked Ms. Woeburne's stern sensibilities (which made it no less true), and E had been at least passably brave. It should be noted here the Ventrue's manners were somewhat sub-par tonight. Alas, the first thing Serena had done one step into their poorly-smelling living room hadn't been exchanging introductions. Instead, she'd stalked straight past Eugene where he skittered on his couch, lunged for the bathroom sink, and thrust her head under its spigot until red water ran clear again. Matted horns of hair melted down cheekbones, languid, tendrils dripping limp like a sigh. Tear smudges disappeared. Crusted blood released her skin and showed the chalkish complexion beneath.

She'd tossed the flea-bitten coat in a garbage bin - stupid Lefevre floof of thing - shredded her soaked clothes, and was now outfitted in a set of Lily's. They were undersized on the lanky thin-blood but ill-fitting Serena in a variety of homely ways; blue sweatpants sagged around her upper shins, thighs awkwardly snug; a battered t-shirt pooled at Ventrue's midriff, sporting some irreverent text and an awfully unclever bunny rabbit. Ms. Woeburne found crude wit juvenile, but was in no position for choosiness. So the Foreman bore her washing machined spring cleaning rags without objection. She borrowed two ace bandages to wrap her grossly-healing digits in, packing everything tightly from knuckles-to-wrist. The officer's impeccable Sire probably would've disowned her on the spot... and Serena couldn't honestly say she'd blame him. She looked terrible. She looked like a runaway who'd fallen through a manhole, who'd called for coppers and got something entirely else.

Hell in a handbasket. What to do about contacting Prince LaCroix? She'd have to dial Venture sooner or later, a conversation Woeburne had been dreading since Nines Rodriguez knocked her over in that chair. A strange fear in the wake of visceral fists. Although she performed commendably against an Anarch Baron's bad games and those flying monkeys he called henchmen, confessing it proved tenfold harder, made everything real. How could it not have been real? Bitterly real with rings in her jaw; wickedly, wretchedly real with fangs at her clavicle and a roach on the wall. There was nothing to misread from this, yet it seemed so impossible those things - those dehumanizing, undignified things - had indeed happened to her. Capture seemed like a personal foible, somehow; her bruises and tender flesh were a deeply-suffered humiliation. She did not anticipate anger from her Sire – no, no, not exactly. But what excuse was there that would not sear worse? Her wounds were all open and could not be salved through the skin. God, Serena did not want Sebastian to see her like _this_. Sympathy was more difficult for the woman than studded fists; excessive kindness whipped her independence, tasted like disgrace. Anything Mr. LaCroix might say would cow his proud Childe's head. It might've been less painful to jut out that pert chin of hers and die.

Perhaps that was why the simple toothbrushing routine was taking an inordinate amount of time.

"We've got a futon you can sleep on," Lily was explaining, chewing her lip. She'd been swallowed down to the knees by a stretched-out tournament shirt that must've belonged to E. They looked like a pathetic matched-set standing there behind Ms. Woeburne. Tongue full of suds, bleeding between her cuspids; she did not seem much better off. "The couch. Used to fold out into a queen-size, but something broke a while back. It's kind of crappy, to be honest. There's not a lot of privacy – sorry."

"That's all right. I doubt I'll be doing much sleeping," Serena admitted, a wry statement, splashing her face before leaving the washroom. She'd probably use the morning to languor beneath a few more scalding-hot showers. Rude to monopolize, perhaps; rude to waste; but so easily did the small privileges stack. She was beginning to feel like an individual again. Socks on her feet, hidden hands. The whites of her eyes ached wildly; the flesh surrounding them was sunken and charcoaled, looking ill. "Do you mind if I use your computer?"

"Sure. The connection's not great, but it should be OK for e-mail. Let me start it up for you. Oh! And before I forget…" Lily nudged her laptop just enough, reaching into the desk drawer and handing over Ms. Woeburne's phone. The Ventrue smiled. But her stomach dropped. "I didn't know when you'd be back, so I just took it. Hope you don't mind."

Serena, having already established the whirlwind following their last meeting, understood. She waved apologies off and sat to check. Four missed calls from a well-recognized agency number flashed away; the one message was UPS informing her two undelivered packages awaited retrieval at a nearby post office.

Ms. Woeburne clicked her cell closed and set it down beside the keyboard. There was an ache building again, a persistent twang, beneath the sheets of muscle, gristle, fat. Her hands hurt. Serena had little desire for business tonight, not even twenty-four hours free, but the question begged to be asked: had anyone else noticed she'd disappeared? A harrowing thought. A martyrish, wanton, _did-they-even_ thought. It was one unworth the upset of overdwelling. Instead, the operative thumbed through her inbox for fifteen bland minutes, mind number than any part of body, deleting junk and mulling hard on each click. The only indicative message was one mild summons from Venture about miscellaneous opportunity. _Opportunity_ - another word that felt like mockery right now. What little games and tricks and worries she'd stewed sitting on that bumpy flight from JFK. Opportunity, business, proposition; this was the language of orders, how they generally communicated when nothing was wrong or something needed doing. It certainly did not seem Mr. LaCroix suspected his Childe had been abducted. Perhaps Sebastian was still awaiting a response about that appointment? Hell – if so, he was likely getting chagrined by her slacking.

She didn't have enough energy to wonder about his corporate proposals now, however. Ms. Woeburne crept sluggishly to the couchlike fixture Lily indicated, plopping her rear end into pillowcases stamped with sea creatures. Green turtles rumpled into colorful octopi. The mauve futon gave a sad little creak beneath its occupant's weight.

"_Hold please, thank you, just a minute," _Joelle said to Serena's neutral request for their Prince. She told the Toreador nothing. There was a strange, inhuman voice in her throat that tasted fretfully cold for someone who'd screamed murder just hours ago. Hours, days? Who could say? The Foreman could not let herself care for time discrepancies right now; she swallowed again, clearing a lump, and listened. It took ten minutes for instructions to come. _"Hello? Yes, dearest. Mr. LaCroix cannot answer your call right now, but he absolutely insists that you come to see him first thing tomorrow night. How is eight o'clock for you? He was very specific, so of course, my sweet friend, you won't be late. Will we? Of course not. Good night, dear girl!__" _Ms. Woeburne could clearly picture Lefevre's gouging, conspiratorial wink in that last second before the miffed Ventrue hung up. How many English-to-French translations were there for "raunchy bitch," she wondered?

Well, so there it was. If Sebastian hadn't already been made privy to her violent kidnapping and equally violent escape, he would know soon.

By the time her telephone calls and politics plans were closed for the night, Lily and E had retreated into their modest kitchen together, allowing Serena whatever space they could. Ms. Woeburne heard them conversing in low voices – sensed the fledglings' disquiet at harboring a Kindred who'd been drenched through with blood. Their concern was understandable. She hoped her Jyhad misadventure would not endanger either neonate - new blood too weak for power-plays and much too young. They may has well have been children. Involving them had been selfish and reckless, but bites at her neck had brought Serena to a point where selfishness and recklessness seemed like the safest exit from faction war.

There was certainly nothing she could do about it now. Not from a shabby, congested studio leased to her flimsy housekeeper. And not with elastic holding together the broken bones.

Serena switched from ring to vibrate, lay rigidly across their uncomfortable couch, and tried not to think about it - tried to keep the acids from eating her up. But every time her eyes closed there might have been a basement door, and every time they opened, she was staring at the ceiling of a small black room.

**II.**

When she stepped into Prince LaCroix's penthouse the next night, Ms. Woeburne could not still her hands from shaking.

She had been expecting one of two scenarios: _1. Her Sire was halfway through a prosecution which would require her only in the most peripheral sense_, or _2. He had no idea; Serena would launch into a trembling explanation so awkward it caused actual physical pain. _Neither option was exactly attractive. Exhausted yet unable to rest, the Ventrue spent last morning curled into that hideous futon couch, mowing all her broken nails to impotent, harmless stubs. She would make it swift and professional, Ms. Woeburne had thought, lying there in the fanblade dark. She could do _professional_. The woman was somewhat less comfortable with _swift_, but usually managed to stagger on through.

Imagine her surprise to enter that office at eight o'clock, and stare down half the city's Primogen.

Serena had never formally met the politicians before her; it would have been inappropriate for an operative of such modest rank, and a waste of Sebastian's time, at best. But she recognized them immediately. They were power-names and deadly looks memorized from the two prior cabinet functions she had attended since arriving in Los Angeles. Her purpose at those commonplace evenings was unimportant - glorified note-taker, runner of errands, checker of times - but that did not mean there was not a covert lesson to be learned in the conference halls of American Jyhad. Wise underlings cataloged more important people into their databanks, and no doubt that had been part of Mr. LaCroix's mission in placing her there. Critical to know the head-shakers, the lobbyists, the anniversaries and eccentrics; vital to spot whose elbows you ought to rub. She could not afford to misremember them. A Prince's Childe cannot find the wrong elbow, nor should she, expat or not, forget whose loyalties were written and whose bought.

Four of them were milling here, a shadow of a council that had already thinned in the last heave-ho of California Anarchy. There was Maximillian Strauss, the Tremere Regent, crimson stitching and Victorian blues. Beside him fidgeted Alistair Grout, vermillion hair nesting wild and lionlike about an crane hook of nose. Who could overlook Claudia Fairholm? – Toreador speaker, social favorite, veiled hat and stippled sun dress striking against mahogany contours. She lounged arm-in-arm in a loveseat with Rozalin K. Greene, more a lion than Alistair if goldness made crowns: medieval blonde against red upholstery, Gangrel blood evidenced only in the way that small woman slouched. They petered about with various expressions and degrees of interest. They were anesthetizing and claustrophobic within the gilt heat of Camarilla headquarters.

They all looked at the open door.

Serena, hovering in a discount suit she'd bought an hour ago, blanched the bitterest color of glue.

She backpedaled towards the elevator without a word.

"Ms. Woeburne," Sebastian said, precisely, patiently, terribly clear.

Serena was hardly about to escape an interrogation to disobey her Sire. She froze there, just beyond the exit, eyes furiously green and embarrassingly wide. The Foreman might have been a girl-child stuck with one hand in a cookie jar. She'd withdrawn from their meeting like one might from a puff-adder rattling through dry summer grass.

The sole ancilla in the room swallowed a throaty lump, tightened both fists, and took one step forward. "I apologize; please excuse me. I didn't mean to-"

But that was all. The shoulder pads beneath this cheap three-button sports jacket she'd got clung uncomfortably to the straps of her undergarments. Serena could taste lipstick drying upon her cracked mouth. It was two shades too bright a red. The amount of hairspray she'd laden on was ungodly, an effort to plume; caked eye shadow did its best to mask bruises. Unfortunately, the combination of overgenerous makeup and inexpensive fabric also made her feel like a sixteen-year-old playing grown-up for a first, failed interview. She still had the ace bandages on. They were rubbing away beneath cufflinks made probably from plastic.

"Interrupt," Ms. Woeburne finished, finally, as though it was something up for debate.

Strauss took little notice. Grout fussed his vest buttons while nodding in a pardoning way. Rozalin nudged Claudia, who squinted and grinned like beautiful lashes on a sickly sweet song.

This was going to be ugly as sin.

"Friends," Sebastian began, shooting a glance that tried to be affable and clearly was anything but. His face borrowed an odd Nordic glow from the nearby fireplace. He was distinctly unhappy about both his spheres meeting, certainly, but you couldn't tell if it was the Childe or the statesmen who'd stepped on their Prince's toes. "You'll have to forgive me; I seem to be overbooked. This is very important to me. But, seeing as how we've run a full hour overtime – and, I'm sure you've noticed, I've appointments lining up at the door – this talk will have to adjourn. My receptionist will schedule a date and send it. This does not overly inconvenience any of you, I trust."

It was not as they might complain - especially not the Malkavian Primogen, who stood in his magnate's hall with a frown troubling him deeper than deteriorating sanity. Fairholm pounced to her feet with that same demeaning smile. She and Greene were partners in crime of the oldest variety, the sort of bad-energy duo that poked fun at Princes and rolled their eyes, to whom meetings were chores that must be done. They walked out separately with mean observations on each others' minds. Even Strauss, who took no guff from LaCroix, appeared content to close his coat and leave. They bid absolutely no goodbyes. Perhaps it was relief leftover from surviving, but Serena felt a fierce bolt of admiration for her Sire at that moment, who leashed these dog-eat-dog bureaucrats with threatening cordiality as he resented their failure to agree.

So she watched his small assembly depart, hugging a wall to clear the thoroughfare. As was proper for an unpresented Prince's Childe, they paid her no mind. Grout's tendrils wafted. She could smell a curl of the Toreador's chamomile and wine.

"Have I come too early-?" Woeburne began, straightened her back like a good cavalier, and felt everything crumble when he stood up and held out an arm to her.

"Serena, I am so sorry for you," he said, in that moment contrite as a pastor. She felt her stomach lurch, the stones dissolve to sand. Sympathy - worse than any lecture, any stern talking-to. Ms. Woeburne tried to shrug but could not bear it. There were stitches of her mouth, her nostrils and neck that began to hurt nonsensically; some kind of compromising, everywhere sting. The Foreman put her hands over her face to keep it from showing but somehow they became quite wet.

And then it happened the shoulder she tried to shrug started shaking, and in her best effort to hold it down, that began to burn very badly, too. Teeth bit down on the tongue between them. _Oh, god,_ Serena thought, _damn me_. But there was nothing but dampness and darkness behind the wall of her palms. She had wanted professional, swift, business; had expected applause, berating, criticism. One gesture of compassion and it all melted to a hot salve of tears.

One set of steps and – though she wasn't certain of the particular mechanics – Ms. Woeburne slumped forward against the black suit, fingers clamped, and thumped her head onto his lapel fold.

The Ventrue could not remember having cried so much in her life as what had been cried in these last few days.

She silently wept for a short time, uncharacteristic flimsiness the Prince allowed, equally uncharacteristic for him. Perhaps this was a more genuine sign of compassion if the apology had not been. Serena did not care how authentic or keenly-felt the patience was; she kept her nose flat against the jacket, a mongrel of a diplomat, cheeks burning, injuries flaring. Her hand bandages soaked up the grief and ruined mascara. At some point, it was not even about the wish to be comforted. She was simply afraid to untuck and subject herself to the scrutiny of a Sire's stare. Their height was too similar to avoid it; his chin pressed over her skull, a point beneath an expression Ms. Woeburne had no desire to read. Childe went wooden in her progenitor's calculated embrace. She was going to _have_ to come out to face him eventually – one couldn't cling to their benefactor's coattails forever – but until that time, burrowing was the finest option available, the one that stung the least.

Yes, it was a half-thing: a lesser bond built on finest options and rationed kindness. Theirs was an incomplete, a relationship standing on sticks. But it was all Serena had to love.

"There, there. No need. You're all right," the Prince told her, elocution crisp, the softest he wouldn't bother making it. _No need._ There was truth to that statement, curt and bracing: the worst is behind you; the terrors have already passed. She fought hard to stop crying with the pain in her knuckles and the fist in her throat. "I will take care of everything now."

"I thought I was going to die," Ms. Woeburne confessed. The words sounded miserable and cool. There was a final relief to saying it aloud.

"Such a thing never should have happened to my own; it's inexcusable, and I am horrified. You will have protection waiting from here on. Nothing like that will ever fall upon you again. I hope you can forgive me."

"They were going to kill me, you know, they were. I didn't divulge anything. I told them exactly what you said to; just that." She said it into the pocket of his jacket. How different this reunion would have been had her resolve in that basement gone limp as her toughness did now. Serena was powerfully aware of that fact against the impersonal cologne and cold fabric, beneath the imperial chandelier. "They didn't care. They were really going to shoot me in the head."

"Well, the important thing is that you prevented them from doing so. Let us be done with this wickedness, then. That period of your life was brief and ugly, but it is over. You can safely put it in the past," he told her, something that tasted more like an instruction than an assurance to the woman with broken hands. A sharp finger pulled her chin up and away to where Ventrue profiles ought to be. It was a terrible way to be moved about, and with distraught eyes, Ms. Woeburne's brow furrowed into something startled - something, perhaps, like anger. Her face felt vulnerable and inappropriate. She could feel the knuckle bone beneath her jugular.

"Stiff upper-lip, Ms. Woeburne," he told her, and that was case closed, that was all of it.

'_You must be joking. This is _your_ fault; it's…'_ Serena almost let herself finish the thought before that something-like-anger dropped, lost all its quills, a shudder that swallowed everything. A something-else - something less like wrongness and more like reason - insisted otherwise. Reason was a Ventrue's elixir. It eradicated any animosity she'd harbored, left his Childe bereft. Ms. Woeburne nodded unwittingly, because it seemed like there was nothing else to do.

She was looking at a small, manufactured smile. Though it re-broke a healing crease in the Foreman's mouth, Serena forced herself to return the expression; she twisted out an up-skewed, rigid quarter-grimace.

"I'm glad you are feeling better," Sebastian informed her.

The descendant blinked helplessly, not quite certain what had happened. Her arms hung awkwardly against her ribs. "Yes," Ms. Woeburne delivered. "I'm all right now. I'm fine."

Ms. Woeburne always delivered. She was the soldier to say yes, and she was always fine.

"There you are," the Prince announced happily. Satisfied with the single-syllable snuffle, he released her face, gingerly patting one cheek. It stung. "Now dry your eyes, dear girl, and we will get back to our business as it always should have been."

A bit shell-shocked by the encounter, Serena feebly agreed, repositioning herself in a nearby chair as LaCroix returned to his desk. That barrier between them, rich and officious, brought some semblance of _professional_ back, a state for which the Foreman supposed she was grateful. Ms. Woeburne watched numbly as Sebastian removed his handkerchief from a middle drawer. She rubbed her cheeks with her palm heels while her Sire brushed at a faint tearstain – a splotch on the lapel, vaguely annoyed look – before he finally sat down.

"What did you want, sir?" the Foreman asked, moderately aware of her bad manners in being blunt. It was difficult keeping all ten digits so immobile inside their makeshift casts. Everything wrist-downwards felt like mittens. "When I rang last night, Joelle mentioned - I think you had something waiting for me. A request or assignment. Before," she choked, unable to describe what had happened, unable to picture how she might've, and unable to fathom what betraying the Camarilla would have entailed.

"Did you receive my e-mail? Well. Never mind. I may as well just tell you," Sebastian supposed, folding hands much more elegant than hers over the black polish. Ms. Woeburne stared at him, blindsided by the question. He was talking about work. She struggled to wrap her mind around the tonal shift, lips thinning, the cosmetic tang of wax. It was too coarse a subject change to offend her. The cool information and obvious coddling – a surfeit of dears and gladness – knotted together, making her speechless, voiceless, malleable.

"I did see it," she confirmed. Another cough cleared the phlegm from her throat. Soon it would sound normal, Serena thought; soon she would be recognizable to herself. "Though, of course, I didn't have time to look into the issue."

"Of course you didn't. I wouldn't expect you to. But all the same, I think you'll be interested, so I've held this proposition for you." He did not comment on the automatic thank-you, for it was routine action, and Serena did not really know why holdover duties were worth thanks. "There's been some curious discourse in this city as of late. You've heard the apocalypse murmurings, I'm sure; they're hardly worth mentioning. What I'm about to share is a little different. It's likely Tremere fire-feeding, though I'll let you decide for yourself how much voodoo you're willing to humor. But. Tell me: do you know anything about demonology, my dear?"

"Demonology." A technical word. There was a sense of nothingness still hanging in the return to office space.

Woeburne must have been a whiteboard, because the Prince gave a mild, disappointed _ahem_. "That's too bad. It's a relevant field, and occasionally useful to defuse the Noddists. No harm done, however. In fact," he noted. "I'll forward you some articles later tonight. But back to the matters at hand. Mind you, in light of your recent difficulties, I wouldn't impose – not so abruptly, at any rate – but this does need to get done." Sebastian's nails against the varnish. "It has come to my attention there is a Nagaraja independent taking refuge in Mercy Hospital. She was courteous enough to declare her arrival in my Domain, and so, for the time being, I have agreed to tolerate this creature's peculiar-" He winced, sensibilities revolted. "Let's just call them 'palates.' A beastlike existence, truly, but I find her more of a scientific curio than anything else. As an extension of gratitude for our hospitality, she has provided a unique piece of information."

"As you know," Mr. LaCroix continued; one of the Prince's wrists rotated, a gesticulation done often with a pen in his hand. "Before we became personally acquainted - and before the irritation of political progress - I had invested significant capital in South Africa, and made more than significant earnings there. What you may not realize is that I spent a great deal of time in the Johannesburg area personally. This is when the city was a scattering of townships, mind you, not a proper metropolis. Is was as close to the wilderness as I would ever wish upon you, Serena. I do not claim to know a great deal about the local religions, naturally. But what I _do_ know is that the superstitions of kine - spookish and primitive as they may be - are every so often a direct result of legitimate supernatural activity. While we grant them no credence, we ought not always dismiss them. At least not without conducting investigations where they are warranted." Two times the riches of Africa had made her Sire a wealthy man: first in the gold mines of Witwatersrand, then on the fire-sale of apartheid collapse. There was no use lamenting the morality of such profiteering after death. Greed and gory colonialism are the other lifeblood of Kindred, but before that, the avarice of mortals with ropes in their hands. That was the nature of free-market exchange.

_Going to play a little capitalism game. _

Ms. Woeburne's spine jerked against her chair when she realized Mr. LaCroix had stopped speaking. Sebastian's lips were pursed; there was a sharp, slightly insulted slant to his brow. "Oh, beg pardon, Serena. Am I boring you?"

"Er. No, not at all," the woman stuttered, recovering as swiftly as she could.

"Back to the Nagaraja, then. Ms. Pisha – that is her name – has traced a certain Zulu artifact to California she would very much like to acquire. Unfortunately, local temperaments prevent from operating freely. So someone less conspicuous must obtain it in her stead. She offers a promising information trade in reward." The Prince afforded Serena an appraising look. He was expecting something from her.

It was familiar. It consoled where he could not.

"I understand," she acquiesced. "I do. And I'm sorry if I still seem distracted. It's passing. I can take care of it." An oath the Foreman has sworn too many times with her body full of fear and nothing in her mangled hands. "Is this something you would like me to delegate or attend to personally?"

"I think you can answer that question yourself, Ms. Woeburne. The piece is currently held by an anthropologist living in Santa Monica – one of Isaac Abrams's ghouls. I would need someone very clever, indeed, to slip in and liberate it without creating an upheaval."

Serena didn't need a schematic or polygraph machine to navigate this conversation. She straightened, resigned, her life recalibrated by the mundane necessity of running Sebastian's errands. It felt surreal – as though a brief, unpublished episode of the Ventrue's career had just hit the incinerators_. _ Had this kidnapping happened at all? It was a rhetorical question, mostly, but one rapidly gaining merit. There lingered an emptiness where outrage should have smoldered – a blank track on the black spot of monstrousness inside. She could see the abacus tallying itself even. It was a political reset.

When disasters cannot be addressed – when the last domino does not fall – when murders are incomplete – they are forgotten, put to sleep. Unfinished gambits can be buried. Inconveniences, entanglements; even the horrifying ones. This is the real circuit of laissez-faire.

"I'm sure, Mr. LaCroix," Ms. Woeburne heard herself promise. Her knuckles still felt like cranberry jelly. Her fortitude was an armor more than a blueblooded right. "I'll get on it tomorrow night."

The Prince snapped together thumb and middle finger. His teeth gleaned beneath the glass light, dead fireplace, and the candelabra glow. "Of course you will. I knew you would. You are, after all, my soldier."

"Staunchly," she said, unaware of how funny, and how prophetic, that truth was from behind the black rings of a corporal's eyes.

The smile they traded was laissez-faire, too.

Perhaps it seemed unsatisfying; perhaps it really was, would be, to most. This is how grievances are mended between Ventrue Childer and their Sires. Concessions are made and loyalties reaffirmed. Persuasions are the attachments of more powerful bonds. Genuine asking is not so important as subtlety in your telling; the bluebloods communicate, confer, redress. Bureaucrats talk everything through. He had swapped her big worry for a smaller one; each takes the mess they can capably manage; and that is how their master-clan has become what it is.

Serena was just about to ask Mr. LaCroix where she should hope to receive Joelle's next fax – or safely live, actually – when a sudden _ring_ interrupted them.

Sebastian picked up his telephone quickly, the high pitch irritating him as it always did. He was rarely in a mood to receive unannounced calls. "Yes, what?" Prince Los Angeles demanded, leaving no time for another voice. Bluebloods talk, bluebloods communicate – _with each other_. "What do you want?"

_"I'll go,"_ Serena mouthed, standing halfway up, when his palm slap to the desk suddenly and forcefully sat her back down.

"I don't have time for - excuse me, _who_? What, exactly, do you mean by... O_h_." Sebastian's expression plummeted in a stunned, furious way; a way she had not precisely seen before; a drop that the woman nevertheless recognized. That silence clinked her every rib. Stopped-up fury, the instant before outrage. It dragged Ms. Woeburne's throat to her stomach like an avalanche. His eyes went wide, moiled deeper and angrier than what was already a very turbulent pigment of blue. He needn't say anything more. She knew exactly who lingered on the opposite line.

That storm intensified ten degrees upon Sebastian's face before he'd speak another word. The thin nose wrinkled viciously. His lips twitched inches from turning to a snarl - fierceness provoked by audacity, fanned by private hatreds. "You can't be serious," the Prince snapped, a skeptic yanked tight. Then: "_What_?" And finally: "Why? This is absolutely obscene; for what reason would I feel whatsoever inclined to allow you to-" A brief, bristling pause as Mr. LaCroix's resentment lilted into something he could not articulate. His opponent argued on though the menacing quiet.

Sebastian thrust the receiver away from his ear and towards Serena. Ms. Woeburne jumped in the second seat she had tried to escape.

"Apparently," he chuffed, "it's for _you_."

She spent a half-second gaping at the thing like it might lunge forward and bite her. His scowl and the flare of his nostrils made Serena pick up one flaccid arm and take that dangling phone.

"Hello...?" she tried, an awkward question-mark, a meek greeting for good Ventrue. Compliance careened in – short, simple statements; short, simple thoughts. "Yes, this is Ms. Woeburne. Yes. That is correct. Yes, I… see. Of course. Indeed, it is – very serious. I understand. Erm. I believe so, but to be completely sure-" An interruption – patient, polite, insistent. Stun a Scepter and get steel palisades. She showed no cognitive reaction whatsoever. She held the receiver tightly, fingers closed, eyes sidelong. "True enough, sir. Yes. I'll tell him. Goodbye."

Serena hung up the telephone and handed it back to her Sire with the deadened look of an outpatient.

"And what," Sebastian asked, indignation turning his curiosity bladelike, "did Mr. Abrams _say_?"

Ms. Woeburne wavered like someone lapsing out of electroshock. Her irises, bleak olivine, glared down a splotch of wood-stain on Mr. LaCroix's desk. "Well." Air pushed through the still-tender channel of her nose. "Presuming we can take him at his word - which is probably a large presumption. He wants to meet with me, I suppose. About what happened," she explained, slinking down into the cushions. They reminded her very strongly in that moment of the uncomfortable metal contraption she'd used to bludgeon an Anarch's brainmatter out_. _God damn this useless body; she needed to take_ something… 'Quaaludes, Vicodin, very strong alcohol – anything.' _

Sebastian was stalking across his penthouse in a flurry of vile French before Serena could elaborate. "Completely unacceptable," he snorted, fragments of language, livid English. One of the Ventrue's arms, with great momentum for his size, swung open a hidden wall closet from the stretch of gold-on-white. The coat was pulled out with unnecessary force. The Prince all but wrestled it on, listless leather, raven black. It made him look like an angry Old World. Serena blinked wildly, glowered by default. She did not want to speak to Isaac Abrams or a Baron of kind. She twisted 'round to watch and fret. "Filthy Toreador narcissist. To think I actually believed he was capable of behaving like a responsible adult about this. Call my office – _my_ office! – to arrange some half-cocked Jyhad with a veritable child. My Childe! Hah! Propagate your Free-State idiocy if you must, but _ne me prenez pas pour un con_! Ms. Woeburne, gather your belongings. Don't dawdle."

Serena skittered out of her chair at the flap of Mr. LaCroix's trench, distressed, wondering if she ought to say something calming. The temper-tantrum was threatening to her new composure, dangerously fragile with duties and dried-out ducts. Ridiculous for a prisoner to wonder if she ought to console her _master_ in all this mess, but little had made sense to the young Ventrue in these few madcap evenings. Los Angeles was a deadly and disorienting carousel. She could see the ruffle that collar had made of Prince LA's nape and flattened her own hair in response.

He shoved a thumb into the intercom and barked. "Joelle, please buzz my limousine. Do it now!"

Even tonight – as she always did after Ms. Lefevre was shouted at – Ms. Woeburne enjoyed a small sadistic cookie of pleasure.

At least it was something.

At least she was here.

"We are going to Hollywood," Sebastian spat. The menace he boiled was not meant for her. She retreated two steps automatically. "You and I. And we are going to settle all pending business with that Party. Let Abrams talk all he wishes; but he will say it, if he can, to me."

Knowing when to speak and when to step aside, Serena followed - through the double-doors, down an elevator chute, and out into the settling layer of smog.


	18. Damage Control

**Damage Control**

Mr. LaCroix bitched all the way to Hollywood.

Current line: "Ridiculous," he seethed, irritable shoulders pressing the upholstery of his limousine backseat. It was the closest Ms. Woeburne ever seen Prince Los Angeles to a rightful slouch. "Absolutely ridiculous. It is the politics of the individually weak. I'm sure the Baron thinks himself charming, extending this so-called reconciliation to you. _Fah_! Sauntering diva. He knows exactly what a gesture like this implies, and it has nothing to do with you, my dear."

Only an idiot would've believed Sebastian LaCroix might hazard injury for his Childe's sake – only an astonishing idiot wouldn't realize the tempest for what it it was: insult and failed planning – but she listened attentively anyway, ears perked for instructions embedded in furor. Her Sire's lofty cheekbones caught brooding angles. He was hunched, fists clenched against his knees, like a slighted Little League athlete. He adjusted and readjusted. He squeezed his hands until the fingers were whiter than bone.

Serena did not ask all the questions revolving in her mind; smart neonates knew better than to prod into their makers' affairs. But Mr. LaCroix must have glimpsed curiosity buried there. Either that or he was ranting, a speech to whomever might take note – and Ms. Woeburne was very good at taking notes. "Not much of this has a lick to do with me, I've gathered. What I fail to understand is why Abrams would stick his neck out in your direction, especially when we've done - when I've done nothing against him," she corrected, not about to speak for her Sire. Saying so was stirring her own anger again, a deep-seated temper, that bubbled beneath steel plates. "This isn't his business. Whatever happened, whatever passed, it doesn't interest Hollywood. I haven't set foot in that district since I got here. If anything - anything at all - baiting me out here is a bigger threat to him than blotting my name and letting me be."

"Oh, please. Serena, please," he snorted, fuming, more flippant than the Prince would have been elsewhere and under different circumstances. Her torture had been overshadowed by the arrogance of Toreador and badly-hidden puppeteer strings. "They're a stumbling two-act - and they both know that if LA pulls them apart, I'll light one up like a haystack. Cut Abrams's financial backing, and Mr. Rodriguez's capacity for 'politics' would be kicking over wastebaskets and knocking down walls. They have no _concept_ of making money. It isn't warfare and it isn't army-building; it's streetside racketeering." Mr. LaCroix was glaring at an unparticular square of glass somewhere behind his progeny's sullen head. "Rodriguez will need Abrams to even lift a finger within these courts so long as he refuses to speak in their language. That can't be any surprise. To anyone - least of all himself. If you won't negotiate with the Occupation, you won't get a say without powerful footstools. So he relies on the old moneyed blood his Anarchs decry to protect him, much as any young Board officer might. Heavy-handed hypocrite." Switchblade welling blood; someone's fists circling the back of her spine. _Try harder, Camarilla_. A bristle she shared.

"Why on earth," Ms. Woeburne scathed, "would being a Brujah's footstool look like a beneficial relationship to anyone? I saw how he functions independently. Could you call it that." The Ventrue's smarted nose chagrined; she felt the watery pain like a spur to the gut, small pops of righteousness that rose through everything worse, everything else. Her heels touched like a minuteman. She could have stood up and fired a shot. "His operation is a stack of bricks and a set of brass knuckles. I can't even speak for those he controls. _If_ he does that much; I told you - I told you about the boy I killed. That a legitimate politician would throw their cards on that pile of-"

"I sympathize. Believe me, if anyone sympathizes, it's I." Neither laughed, but it was a private joke, or as much of one passed between two incensed bluebloods in a fearfully clean, fearfully cold car. Two fires too near either feed one another or suck out the oxygen at once. Haughty claims: one whose English was imperfect, one whose was obsessively precise. "One might think Isaac would simply dispose of him when the violence grew too inconvenient – assuming that self-satisfied fool respects his constituents as much as he respects his films – but no, not so. For all Clan Toreador's vaunted 'power' in Hollywood, Baron Abrams does himself a serious disgrace. To compensate for his pitiful job of security – because he's afraid of what I might do in that outlandish district had I the mind – Isaac leans upon the shoulders of Rabble. Pathetic pair of would-be dukes… all that glorified _personality_, and still too incompetent to stand upon their own. It's a vicious and rotting alliance. Left to their own devices, they'll destroy each other one day; this will all devolve into a mutiny land-grab the instant territories start to overlap. You mark me on that." Sebastian crossly cleared his throat.

Their car took a sharp left turn, pushing Serena's sleeve into a window. Beaded condensation leaked into her suit jacket. The Foreman's eyes, scowling in aloe, flickered about in search of stray Kleenex; the Prince observed this, and handed a napkin with an imprudent thrust of his arm. "The Brujah will lose in anything but a direct siege, of course. Abrams won't let them march that far into his Domain; fortunately for Hollywood, he isn't quite _that_ useless. Either way, Rodriguez is a martyr in the making, so I'd rather not make that martyr myself unless I can justify execution. In the meanwhile, a feud within the Free-State might even serve my purposes well. Without his preaching pet soldier, Isaac would sulk back to that theatre - to that, that... that tacky, swaggering Orient knockoff - waiting for me to approach him or bribe him down. One absent the other is no concern to me. I'd have them both paraded out and beheaded, were this any other field than LA." It wasn't an authentic threat; Mr. LaCroix could be prideful, indeed, but Ms. Woeburne knew he was also far too circumspect for brazen attacks, a mogul bound by convention and Camarilla law.

"I'd shine the axe for you. Hypothetically speaking."

"Hypothetically speaking, Serena, I'd be tempted to ignore them and wait for the eventual sedition. Unfortunately, I have no guarantees their coup d'état will precede an assault upon my Domain. That, too, would fail… but the ideals they tout have momentum enough to outlive them. They have the potential to last a very long time. Sabbat to the south border, Kuei-Jin pecking our coast? We have enough to contend with in the Americas without ten years of Anarch kamikazes. That I cannot have. It is only together that they merit some attention, and so it is together they are sure to approach me," Sebastian went on, taking back his handkerchief and flinging it into the empty seat. "This city is young; hence, its youth need the breakneck gusto of younger men to riot them. Whatever Los Angeles might believe, though, Mr. Rodriguez is a _player_ on Baron Abrams's stage. He is no tragic hero and he is no blind king."

Had they not both been so angry, so _right_, Serena might've snickered at his melodrama. Mr. LaCroix had this awful tendency to vent Shakespearean when the hot-cold monarch got in a conquering mood.

When their vehicle stopped, LA's Prince and his Childe stepped out before the sinister masonry of what appeared to be a jewelry parlor, an artiste's attempt to out-class. Unwelcoming window glass greeted them. It was a humid night; Hollywood crawled sporadically with tourists, lost drinkers, plain-clothes prostitutes and vagrants in bandanas like faction flags. Low breeze smelled like rain wash following tortilla vendors. For all the sass of that pompous Toreador parlor, however, its face was all dim lights and dark doors, minimizing attention in an unfriendly way. Letters of a condescending gold boasted Abrams's name over the entrance. Shatter-proof protected pearls in red brick walls. Palm fronds hung their skeleton fingers over the chain linked alleys. Serena watched some overly-muscular, BluBlocker doorman shoo a gaggle of coast girls from the outdoor displays before he acknowledged either Ventrue at his door.

There was no ceremony. The ghoul directed Ms. Woeburne and her Sire inside with a curt jerk of an impossibly square chin. They likewise shared a terrible, indignant, commiserating look.

_Nodded-in_ by a Toreador's hound. As if Sebastian was not already breathing fire.

Serena's hinges felt tight and punitive as the Foreman stepped onto sidewalk with her cuffs neatly buttoned, her back authoritatively straight. She found this area distasteful. It was a vaguely surprising location for glamour-inclined Elders; Ventrue often preferred safety in spotlights, not mafioso cinderblock, and maybe that ironic mismatch shouldn't be lost. The Prince told his two gunners to wait in the limousine.

"Speaking plainly, sir," she said as Mr. LaCroix slammed his car door shut behind her. They stepped over the curb and were escorted – with threadbare, voiceless courtesy – down that lane. It ended in an elegant bronze back door, ram's head knocker out-of-place against drab cement. There was an upturned trashcan clinking nearby. Serena stepped over a crushed Mountain Dew can with rapidly lowering patience. "And speaking from the mood of that interrogation as I read it: we may be walking into a cover-up. I hope it's all right if I suspect that to you." Sebastian's expression was permissive beneath the overheads, but also impatient - a dislike for needless questions, for having to be asked. She resquared herself as they moved. She pressed on. "In light of what you've told me and what I've read, I'd think this would have to be. You can't rely upon one observation, I know; all the same, there's my best guess. It didn't seem like Baron Abrams had any interest in gathering a jury against me. In fact," Serena snapped, forearms twanging with something that felt like static lightning.

"In fact _what_, Ms. Woeburne?" The impatience did not lessen with the nearness to that door.

"In fact I wouldn't be out of my head to want to prosecute these people. Unlawful restraint; abduction; attempted manslaughter. Is there even such a charge? I don't know. I don't know the technical term." Two nails pinched that infinitesimal dip between nose bridge and skull. "What we don't have to debate is that an Anarch entity held me against my will. For _days_. There's more than enough evidence of that; look at my hands, my poor hands. He destroyed my apartment. He broke my bloody nose." The fact was charred rubber on her tongue – hateful, with spite that caught her off-guard. Sebastian's look said _'silence,'_ but he regarded Ms. Woeburne's poor hands with a righteous, tutting shake of his head. The bridge of her snout still stung. Serena had no clue how she'd manage to wear glasses again this month. "Small wonder Abrams wants to separate himself from that interrogation now. I'm not challenging your discretion, sir, honestly. But as a response to all you just told me – considering the situation between them – I don't see why we can't pardon Baron Hollywood and just indict this bastard."

Mr. LaCroix's eyebrows ascended. It was not surprise, and it was not amusement. "That might be a tad more viable if you had not already attempted to _manslaughter_ him."

"Not before the den downtown murdered Mr. de Luca," Ms. Woeburne insisted, insides knotting. The vampire's voice was a harsh, exasperated whisper. They were almost the same height clapping punctually along towards Hollywood's head. "Besides, sir, he was stalking me."

Three steps past the checkered foyer, they were pointed into a long hallway. Elm panels were made redder with cloth wallcover, garish ruby, velvet stripped straight from dinner theater. Faded pictures beamed from their frames – Abrams grinning with an arm around Humphrey Bogart, Sinatra, Nicholson; pecking a showman's kiss on Judy Garland's rouged cheek. Their eyes wrinkled, paralyzed in sepia. Ms. Woeburne felt irrationally disturbed, and so she hurried on, fixing her stare at the oak floor.

"Indeed. A significant insult which you were sorely unsuccessful in ever proving to me," Sebastian observed, tapping a puncture into Serena's ego tank. Her sensibilities flustered at the implication of dishonesty.

"Mr. LaCroix," she said sharply. He settled the Foreman's righteousness and skeptical look with a dismissive flip of one hand.

"I know, of course, that you told me the truth. I am simply trying to illuminate for you how the Toreador might make your claims cardboard in court," Prince LA told her. It eased the frank, dubious arch of his agent's eyebrows and stopped up whatever scoffing defenses she might've thrown. It did not reanimate said agent's self-assured aplomb. Her heels clicked sadly on the floor as they moved down this bragging, vainglorious corridor. "There are a great many fine points and misunderstandings about recent events you should take into account before threatening legal action. First, realize this: whatever the accusations against him may be, I had entrusted Mr. de Luca only with upholding the Masquerade. He was by all means an excellent officer, as are you. Don't drag your feet, dear." Ms. Woeburne straightened her toes. _ 'Perfect – leave one's Childe dangling before a wolf pack, then jab at her investigation skills.' _Still, the praise had marginally repaired her bruised esteem. "It is my understanding he used his authority upon several Brujah Caitiff running amuck in San Francisco. Any worthwhile Scourge would have done the same. But…" Mr. LaCroix wrenched a smile at her – understated, backhanded, the smile of a man who knows his ace is guarded well. "Outside Los Angeles, outside my jurisdiction. You understand?"

Serena nodded grimly. So there it was: the malignant root of all these hushed transgressions and sneaky potshots.

Personal ethics aside, Ms. Woeburne did understand. It was a familiar concept: one could not sacrifice all for the dignity of one. Disagreement would indicate selfishness that weakened the Camarilla and frown upon her character.

That did not mean she had to like it, however.

"Was I aware? Only after-the-fact; I expressed no kill order. Unfortunately, but predictably, the Anarchs did not respect this distinction. I had not anticipated them tying Victor into the executions so quickly. He was usually much more tactful," the Prince sighed. Serena was not amiss to how loudly her Sire broadcasted this information. He projected confidence, but had specifically waited until they entered Baron Hollywood's haven to explain these affairs and the history behind them. Was it a staged warning, a flash of the full house in his deck? Surely Isaac wouldn't fall for that. Would he? Did the posturing never end?

She could answer her own question: _no_. No, it did not.

"What you've said makes sense, sir. It never didn't make sense. I know what not to bring up in this conference." A stern, brisk look over one shoulder to regard her ancestor. There was yellow and blue mottled beneath a smear of cosmetic from lash to the curve of each brow. She might have scolded him for doubting the highway fiasco – and for once, he might've backed off a less-than-transparent issue. "I realize that a Prince is held suspect for just about everything that could go wrong."

Mr. LaCroix paused to advise his descendent, laying a councilor's hand upon her arm. She stopped immediately. Royal inspection - they faced one another between two files of drunkenly orange fan scones. "They have their suspicions, yes; I, too, have mine. So, you see – while it was an excellent blunder – your collision and the consequences thereof were also quite inconvenient to you. The act was particularly vicious and about as ill-timed as viciousness could have been. I realize it was not a premeditated thing, Ms. Woeburne, but Abrams could easily accuse you of spying or worse. That wouldn't be very productive for our recent business. Do you appreciate the nature of my predicament? Picking a public spat with the Anarchs regarding de Luca's indiscretions was the last note on my agenda, but you somehow found your way into the thick of it all. It is also for this reason that I could not license a direct raid on Mr. Rodriguez's properties, despite my fears he had taken you. We are very lucky you kept your tongue snugly between your teeth, you know. A false confession at this point could be disastrous."

Another smile.

Serena managed one of her own before Sebastian steered them forward. Another blank-faced ghoul unlocked two sets of double-doors that ended the great hall, saying nothing. He needn't – icy indifference spoke volumes louder than chosen words, and revealed his master had been expecting more prestigious company than some bumbling Broad offshoot. Sebastian guessed correctly; Mr. Abrams orchestrated this supposedly friendly meeting, inviting a Prince by speaking down to his Childe. _'Of course he had.'_

The Prince halted her one final time before they entered. Lapis entreated her to perform wisely, pupil reminding the consequences of _not_. "Keep one last thing in mind, Ms. Woeburne. Why he's sticking a thumb into our affairs is obvious: the Baron wants assurance you won't press your issue against his toy soldier. He and I both realize this cannot devolve into an inquest without digging up a very long line of questionable acts on either side." His palms cupped Ms. Woeburne's shoulders; it was a bracing action, hardly a warning, and she fought to take it as such. "It is not as though I intended to overlook these past few nights entirely… but I was hoping, at least for now, to draw a blanket over the misadventure. Isaac claims no involvement; I claim no involvement. Hogwash, of course, but necessarily so. As I think I have made clear, we want to exert pressure upon our political rivals, Serena – we do not want war with them."

Then he gave her arms a quick, comradeship squeeze, and Ms. Woeburne pulled open the last door herself, ready to exert all the pressure she could.

The moxie collapsed like a rockslide when they strode in, and Nines Rodriguez stood up.

Isaac made a casual show of not noticing their entrance, but the Brujah rose immediately, chair scraping tile. His back stiffened beneath coat leather, jaw clenched, full height. The metallic stare conveyed nothing. Serena floundered between two urges: _A.) Yank a pistol from the doorman's thigh and fire straight through that empty blue eye_ or _B.) About-face and sprint back onto the street like a bat-out-of-hell_.

In a brilliant display of "Plan C," the Ventrue clamped shut her mouth and froze.

"Why, Prince LaCroix!" Hollywood's strutting raj swooped up to welcome Sebastian as though he'd been a dear old friend. They shook hands beneath the Anarch's spotted green tie and across his desk, cluttered with cinema memorabilia and photographs; both politicians' grips were menacingly cool. Her Sire's lips pressed into a thin, disdainful line to counter Abrams's shameless grin. The sham greeting had made him abandon his Childe momentarily, left five steps behind, smacked brutally dumb. Rodriguez's presence was like a black hole in the luxury room. She looked everywhere and nowhere as all the nerve endings began to curl from her nailbeds, to tuck themselves away. "What a surprise. Welcome to my humble home. Please, make yourselves comfortable. That goes for you, too, Ms. Woeburne. I'm Isaac. Glad to finally meet you."

_'Shit-eating Toreador,' _shot across Serena's mind before she could wipe the shock from her face. Somehow – _somehow_ – the Foreman kicked forward, thrusting out one arm. She grabbed and clutched without feeling any skin. But the man's mafia ring, hoarier than his mop of slick grey hair, was a kitschy barb where it stuck out beneath her snugly-wrapped fingers. Crowfeet wrinkles curled handsomely around Broadway gold eyes. He held on for an uncomfortable five seconds before letting progeny fall back to maker's side. "You already know Mr. Rodriguez."

There was killer rejoinder to _that_, she was sure, but Ms. Woeburne stared robotically at one Baron, desperate to avoid the second's unfeeling gaze. No other coping mechanism came naturally. The Ventrue would be grilling herself later over it.

LaCroix's critical look graded Abrams like one might a moderately disgusting parasite – a squirming leech or persistent bee, tolerated only for the practical purposes it served. Rodriguez, however, he ignored entirely. Downtown's once-autocrat wasn't fazed by being shunned; in fact, he said nothing at all to acknowledge Prince Los Angeles, either, a man whose titles chased out old honor pack status. He did very little, actually, but pierce silver indifference towards the problem that had escaped him. The Brujah's fists hovered threateningly unmade at either side, exaggerating his size, body language in an effort to intimidate her. Serena's nails sunk into her palm heels. Barricade soldier: unspoken, mouth inexpressive, brick wall, geometrics barbarous, rough dress suited for mean streets and not boardrooms hardly bothering to be appropriate. It could have been ridiculous. _Should_ have - offensive company sharing council with a bloodline easily incensed - but there were other emotions than enmity in meeting a pair of hands that almost killed you. Unexpected fear impacted like poison. It pulled faint, gauzy veins towards the center of her eyes; she knew if she looked at him, the panic would overtake her, smother what mattered more. Having him here was that dark negative space in the room. He was like the dog that makes eye-contact just to lunge for your pipes.

Sebastian was right. Insolent kingfish and his barking mutt. She hated them both._  
_

"Sit, please," the charlatan bid them, foreplay to a cheap parlor trick. Neither did. This audience was far too cold-eyed and critical for card games or levitating coffee tables. They looked strange in this decadent, smoky lounge; she could not decide if menacing Rabble or indignant bluebloods were sorer thumbs amongst diamond print. Only one of them fit. "Can I get you a drink? No? Well, then... I suppose we're all work and no play. Too bad. But it is probably best we start in on our business this evening." As a note of defiance or simple smugness, Isaac broke the norm and reclined into his desk chair. Serena was half expecting the Toreador might abandon custom entirely and toss those worn-in loafers up.

"I see no reason for Ms. Woeburne's involvement in this discussion." Mr. LaCroix's declaration was abrupt, displeasure written across the crisp colonial face. He made no effort at niceties, to return the welcome. Ms. Woeburne figured she ought to be insulted, but what good would that do?; she would've greatly preferred these bull-headed Elders had been decent enough to lock horns over a different pawn. _'Not as though this glorified pony-show has anything remotely to do with me,' _good Ventrue sense reminded. Thank God Sebastian was still decades away from any sort of real political aims for her. To be candid (and a little pigheaded), when he'd first extended this summons, Serena fretted that grooming for a cabinet seat was about to commence.

It was not as though this future tasted unappealing to Ms. Woeburne – was she not a Scepter child? – but unlike so many other Associates, ambitioners with less cutthroat Sires, this Scepter child saw Jyhad's gnashing teeth were larger than her own. Much larger. In fact, this raw-meat sensation all up and down her legs and arms might've been tantamount to sinking into a discount shark cage.

"I hoped we could handle this like civilized people," Abrams suggested. The Foreman's badly broken hand twitched.

"A fine proposition, Isaac." Ms. Woeburne glanced towards the Prince at her left. His whites glinted like bullet rounds; his straight-razor tone cut right for the biggest artery. "Except you've mismarked where the problem is. If this were 'uncivil,' I would have brought my cohort inside. If this were 'uncivil,' you would not be sitting before me from the comfort of your home. So you can see I have no problem with civility. Collar your hound and perhaps we shall be 'civil' yet."

The Brujah's teeth ground together, but he was not spared even a threadbare glance, for deseated warlords merited no bunk from those who'd pushed their castles down. Serena had never been so glad to have Mr. LaCroix standing by her side. Nines Rodriguez might have actually growled.

Baron Hollywood sighed, smile sliding off-kilter; it looked strangely like he enjoyed the texture of fake overtures upon his tongue. "That's not an option, I'm afraid." One bushy eyebrow quirked upwards. Abrams now focused upon the young Ventrue, who boxed her posture to prove fearlessness. It was as much of a farce as his happy manners, Serena supposed, but by no means would she allow Isaac's ostentatious little game of charades to hamper Camarilla agendas where his minion's fists already failed. The Toreador's confidence was evident in how he relaxed, and how one heel tapped drum patterns on his floor. "It's not a settlement without all parties participating. I'm sure I don't need to tell either of you that. Besides, Mr. Rodriguez has just as much a right to be in this conversation as Ms. Woeburne, I'd imagine."

_'I imagine there wouldn't be a settlement if Mr. Rodriguez had just as much right to turn up dead.' _For a gritting moment, the woman thought she'd said it.

"Ms. Woeburne has no business in this conversation," Sebastian shot back immediately. The warmth of stained glass and art light turned his rust-blond a pale, fine orange. Hers looked blacker than it had ever been. "But as I see you are intent on acting the intermediary about this, and we are already here, so it goes. Let's do away with this little ensemble. Exactly what are your terms?"

Abrams's expression was confused, mildly taken aback. Serena caught Mr. LaCroix's face sharpen with hate, and saw she wasn't the only Ventrue present who'd fancied ramming her knuckles through that smart, slack, glittering sneer. "Prince," Isaac remarked, low and nettling. His charm was of the molasses, poison kind. "This wasn't intended to be a bargaining session. I only wanted to touch base with our friends in the tower. And I apologize if I sounded litigious before; there's no need for this to turn formal. I won't shy from the issue. I think we all realize some missteps were made over the past few nights, and they need to be settled, preferably before we leave anyone with incorrect notions. Rumors light like wildfire in my Barony these days, and I'm sure downtown can say the same. It's not good business. Besides, you know I can't stand gossip." Another ringlet of grin formed; he aimed it at Ms. Woeburne. "My colleague has been told of his mistake. I hope you aren't the type to hold a grudge."

Serena puckered around a dry lime of a comeback. Her words and her lips were very sour wine. "I was about fifteen seconds from being diablerized, Mr. Abrams. I'm sorry – you're asking if I hold a grudge?"

Though it was difficult through all this resentment, the swirling adrenaline, and the iciness of Sebastian's complexion: Serena detected in her Sire a small puff of pride.

Isaac looked genuinely repentant. He picked an auto model from its stand upon his desk, classic Ferrari, toying with delicate rearview windows. This was the fidgeting of a dramatic guilty conscience: mighty, apparent, but not necessarily true. "Yes. I'm personally very sorry you were placed in that situation, Ms. Woeburne. Obscene. My associate, here, has assured me the perpetrator was promptly dealt with after he'd been discovered. Half-dead, so I suppose you didn't have much trouble looking out for yourself, after all," the Baron noted. His tone swung one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, ashamed and contrite to icepick suspicion. Serena's carpals throbbed harder. The needle-head ghosts of puncture wounds to her neck were suddenly, intolerably itchy.

"Apparently the perpetrator was not counting on his meal being in a condition to defend itself, Mr. Abrams," she told him. Nines stared at her with the dispassionate, soulless look of a man on death row.

"Please," the Toreador said, smile dripping false friendship, and it made Ms. Woeburne's innards heave. "Call me Isaac."

Sebastian was quick in parlaying to her rescue. "Well," he spat. "You have it. You wanted her confirmation, and you have it. I trust there is no need to put my name in ink. Now is that settled to your liking, Abrams, or must we endure this pointlessness much longer?"

"Not _much _longer, Prince." Just enough emphasis to cause physical discomfort. Snide old patron; he replaced the hotrod-red automobile with a slack wrist and very peculiar sort of disrespect. This impromptu conference was nerve-wrecking in a flamboyant, uniquely stupid way – as though it fell off a crime noir film reel, drama in static, of particles that fought for center screen. Nines Rodriguez had crossed his arms as though he were angry, or as though he were angrily cold. "Wouldn't dream of inconveniencing you. And no, I don't need a signature. Your good faith will do."

"I'm sure," the Prince snapped.

"I'm glad." Both of them, magistrate and courier, _roiled_. Isaac either didn't notice or didn't care. "I just wanted to look you in the eye when we talked about this. Made sure we were seeing things the same way. You know how I work; personal touch," he said, but it was not self-depreciation; it was a verbal smack-and-a-wink. "Old-fashioned of me, I realize, but this business wouldn't sit well with me any other way. It's not my style to relax in an office and twiddle my thumbs while our neighbors persist in killing each other, especially over a misunderstanding. It wasn't-"

"Misunderstanding?" The squawk came from Ms. Woeburne. Prince LaCroix didn't bother shushing her this time; she couldn't bite her tongue. Perhaps he did not want her to. Hostility rolled and coiled far beyond the Foreman's moderate years, making her bigger, making her cut. "I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Abrams. I had no idea I was accidentally kidnapped – my mistake," she snarled, sarcasm acidic, scrunching the Ventrue's nose despite its cadenced pains. "Oh, no; I don't hold a grudge at _all_. This changes everything. I see now that the whole mess was just one great, big-"

"This 'mess' include that truck you brought down on my head?"

"Isaac," Sebastian commanded bitterly, "please inform your co-conspirator that he is not permitted to speak to Ms. Woeburne."

Nines didn't say one more goddamn word.

"Actually, our perspectives on this are more similar than different, Prince. I don't doubt you question the fine-print about this - the circumstances that led, however directly or indirectly, to it. And that's exactly it: so do we. Whatever the girl's real motivation might have been, Mr. Rodriguez had every reason to suspect she was working under your orders," Abrams argued - easy, furious dismissal. Serena's hair follicles stood on end at being so blatantly and so inconsequentially reduced to 'the girl,' but she didn't dare any more aggression. His lackadaisical manner of speech was nonplussed; he felt comfortable within the chintz-and-glitz security of Hollywood, a Domain that made him, and in turn had been shaped more than a century. Either-or, and-which. He was casual and offhand. He might as well have been selling tickets to a stage production. "Now, _I_ understand this couldn't possibly be the case. But you can't deny that, from his standpoint, Ms. Woeburne could just as well have been a spy. She could have been an assassin, for all we knew of each other's movements at the time. And, whatever the reason - however valid or invalid the response may have been on either side - she did significant violence against him. Violence is hard to write off these nights. It was completely within my associate's rights – his duty, even – to investigate the incident in whatever ways were available to him."

Serena choked. In a series of words and a matter of seconds, the Ventrue's shoulders had jumped, stiffened, and turned to bedrock beneath her ears.

It was a visible pop; a precipice of outrage, of screaming. There were Anarchs in communion - one-half menacing, one-half insult. They were an awful, depraved partnership. She might _have_ screamed at them had it not been for the something someone else said.

Rage was snipped at the quick by Mr. LaCroix's martial hand at the back of her neck. It was a brief, fatherly gesture; a drop of ice cubes into a coffee mug. Cool calm swept through. She dropped both spring-locked arms and bit her teeth together and tried - she did try - to uncoil.

"This is enough. We have settled what needs to be settled, and we will entertain your insecure graspings for ceasefire no longer," the Prince insisted, an uncompromising end. His fingertips had closed around the ridges of her spine. She took a deep, useless breath. Sebastian had more than his fill of Toreador negotiations, something her Sire thought was useless, and something he cultivated close to no tolerance for. Serena was in no position to quibble with him. Her sense of justice was a wasp's nest an Anarch had kicked. It made her feel red-eyed and drunk. "You and I are beyond finished here. Ms. Woeburne will not be pressing the issue against you or your collaborators. I assume that is what you wanted to hear, yes?"

Baron Hollywood smiled.

"Yes," he said, no more.

Mr. LaCroix's lip curled, a snide, a belittling twist of muscle that communicated more than it should've. "Very well. Do not forget that we expect the same level of prudence from your organization. And Mr. Rodriguez." Sebastian tossed him a perilous look. "I am obligated to forewarn you: if you take it upon yourself to come near my Childe again, be assured – truce or no truce – I will sign a Blood Hunt."

He said nothing – but the Wolf-Prince looked away.

She could not see if there was more reaction, could not make herself face those fists and those winter colors in time. Guiding his corporal by her collar, new Prince Los Angeles swiveled on his heels. His strides were measured, discontent, poised. Ms. Woeburne stumbled only once, and she did not wish anyone goodbye.

For expecting a shooting gallery, that didn't go half bad.


	19. Elementary

**Elementary **

Officer Chunk had been burning the midnight oil.

On the off-hours of predawn, lunchtime and coffee breaks: case file _Find Lily Harris's Boss_. And, rec-room camera codes aside, he had primarily discovered this: Venture Tower had a lot of employees.

Balancing a high-profile security gig with this private eye stint was no walk in the park. Research held him downtown late, which meant Bernie missed _Law & Order _(his favorite show) two evenings in a row since that scrappy carrot-top asked for help. By the time investigations (or, at least, his shift) closed yesterday, he was dog-tired - tired enough to snore right through three alarms the next evening, miss breakfast/dinner, and twist an ankle hurrying to punch in. Those were the drawbacks of having the conscience he did.

Conscience was a relative thing, though. Officer Chunk would have told you not to mind that distinguished, police-ish badge glistening handsomely at his left breastbone; he was just an Average Joe doing what any other upright, wholesome Average Joe would've when placed in the position to save lives. There was no calling in sick to good citizenship. If civic duty meant paper-hunting at the moment, then this Joe was happy to board up in his office, mug in hand, and hunt paper until everything was resolved.

If he had an office, that is.

As it happened, Bernie was stuck using the crappy surveillance monitors tucked away in a discreet corner of Venture's public atrium, fighting with an overtaxed old keyboard. The shift key stuck every three sentences. And, though he couldn't imagine why, someone had apparently run off with the mouse ball. Must've been on a different patrolman's night. Krantz suspected the cleaning staff; What's-Her-Name-With-The-Mole always did look like she was up to no good.

But you couldn't crack every case. He popped his knuckles over the console glow.

There were a couple details about this particular instance Chunk was sure to notice. The first of those being that Ms. Harris, as worried and kid-faced as she was, apparently found out about Serena Woeburne's government status from a credible source. He couldn't be sure if the missing-person clued her in or she'd just upturned suspicious correspondence. But there was no doubt at all in the crime scene or the report. He had seen the blood and broken mirror in that cool, swank suite. Looked as though someone's head had been grabbed from behind and smashed right into it. Lily stood nearby with hands glued to her face while Bernie picked up glass, tongue stuck from the side of his mouth, wielding a tweezer borrowed from the bathroom cabinet to drop each shard in its own plastic bag. He'd been painfully careful. They sat in a bag on the man's dinner table - beneath a lamp, next to a fingerprint kit his brother sold him some years ago. Whoever broke in there must've used gloves.

Either that, or maybe Ms. CIA/FBI faked her own disappearance. That was looking more and more likely to him as the fine-print lined up. Might've been crazy to stick on like this, nosing into agency business - maybe dangerous, something regular folks ought to stay away from. But Chunk was a man accustomed to danger. He had the tenacity not to let it go.

And he really couldn't just up and leave Ms. Harris hanging out in the breeze, could he? Anxious and scared as she was. Now, justice was blind, but Chunk had always been something of a sucker for damsels-in-distress. Besides, Lily really did seem like a sweet kid. Even if her instincts were wrong, her zeal was admirable; in two years of work, of triple-checking the main floor locks, Krantz never felt the same kind of concern for his own boss that she apparently did for Ms. Woeburne. That's not to say he didn't take his responsibilities seriously, because everyone who knew Bernie knew he was the most serious badge you'd been, but he stayed on his side of that tough blue line. Protection never got personal with a trained guard. It was heartwarming to see somebody else care like that, though, especially the youth. And to think everyone said that Young People were all pot-smoking, shot-up, graffiti-scrawling hooligans nowadays.

He'd advised her not to spread this around, though. Chunk was a firm believer in trusting your government and tried to walk-the-walked that belief into others, but in certain times - at certain heights - politicians started turning on the people its soldiers protect. Getting involved in top-secrets wasn't something you ought to do accidentally or rashly. He understood she was concerned, Bernie explained; who wouldn't see that? But there was a time to be emotional and a time to be cold, hard smart. No telling what kind of trouble knowing a spy might get innocent bystanders into; hot-info like that could make you a target lickity-split, faster than anything. She was lucky to have come to him first.

Emotion was up past its bedtime; tuck it away, he'd said, put it to rest. Officer Chunk could handle the cold and the smart.

Social media hadn't been real illuminating, though. He consulted his notes for another idea.

Mouse clicks and chair wheels clacked behind him. Bernie, aware of his environment in a way only watchdogs could be, took a backwards glance at Ms. Joelle. All was well in Venture tonight. She sat model-straight at her station across the empty, echoing lobby, tipping faster than seemed possible, red suit waiting for another black one to stride in.

That was the other thing about investigations: don't assume you can't learn things from people safe to trust. He'd asked her this evening to forward him any recent staff changes or failures to check-in, but… well, Ms. Joelle was always awful busy. She didn't have the opportunity to stop and chat mid-shift. Which was perfectly understandable. You could see how overworked their chief receptionist was in the way she sat right on the edge of her seat, there; crimson shawl and attentive posture; typing one-hundred miles an hour. Almost never tore her pretty eyes away from that computer screen. Didn't even hear you, sometimes… sometimes not even when you spoke to her directly. Scooted her swivel-chair away and snatched up the telephone when he'd approached the front desk a minute ago; Chunk hadn't exactly heard it ring, but LaCroix Foundation must've kept you on your toes like that. He could certainly appreciate work ethic. Personnel questions and company books would have to wait until later.

In the meantime, though, a search engine stared at him, waiting for input. Policepersons had to be versatile, and Officer Krantz could play it by ear with the best of them. The World Wide Web admittedly wasn't his most comfortable domain, though. Figured - in terms of detectives, Officer Krantz saw himself as less of a Munch and more of a Stabler: dogged, eagle-eyed and a true-blue father to his impressionable kids.

If he had any kids, that is.

Chunk re-folded his lunch, a sadly collapsing Bandito Burrito, taking a mighty bite of the meat, garlic and soggy lettuce. He picked just the wrong moment to chew. Had tortilla wheat obscured his vision a little less in those next few seconds, Bernie might have recognized the entrance of Mr. Man Himself – Sebastian LaCroix – purveyor of business, executive commander, and far-off distributor of paychecks. Had he managed to clear that wilting wrap away, Officer Krantz might also have noticed Mr. LaCroix's scowl, a crinkle in a sheet of loose-leaf. Possibly, he may even have spotted the secretarial-looking woman trailing just abreast – a familiar, unspectacularly feminine face with no name attached to it.

Unfortunately for Chunk, he didn't register either until both Ventrue had already passed him by unchecked. They walked in to no security and no eyes upon them. This little fact served to enhance Mr. LaCroix's displeasure with life – he overlooked Lefevre entirely, ignoring her fulsome welcomes, to glower at the back of Bernie's chair. When the executive's forked-shouldered shadow didn't give him away, Sebastian announced a visitor with an indignant, loud _'AHEM.' _His sound was less like congestion, more like the bark from a peeved Doberman Pinscher. Krantz jumped in place. The burrito hit computer keys with a sodden _'thwup.'_

Chunk thought Mr. LaCroix was usually a pretty nice person, so far as venture capitalists go. One met some interesting folks working for him, at any rate; eccentric upper-crusters were always filtering in and out. Strangely enough – even with all the odd traffic that swept by – Officer Krantz still had no real inkling as to what, exactly, his boss did. There were always people moving even when the foyer seemed silent as a grave. A lot of guests seemed to be of foreign descent, primarily European, which led him to suppose they must've run some kind of multinational corporation. A couple of said guests were really jaw-dropping women, too, Bernie had noticed, which wasn't a huge surprise. All things considered, Mr. LaCroix was a handsome guy. Particularly for the amount of stress he was probably under - holding meetings at ungodly hours of the night, dashing overseas at the drop of a pin. A man couldn't settle like that. Sometimes Chunk thought the white-collar lifestyle was overrated.

Which was why he didn't blame Mr. LaCroix for hollering at Joelle "What in the hell is it I am paying him for?" and jerking a thumb in his direction.

Ms. Lefevre's scarlet shoulders gave an uninterested shrug.

"You don't know. Color me surprised." The Prince was acerbic and unforgiving, an overwrought bowstring. His icecap glare turned from shrinking Bernie to sear a neat little hole through Joelle's candy-red indifference. She grimaced, her femininity now flakey and foundering. "Consider yourselves lucky I don't have the time or patience to downsize tonight," LaCroix continued, brows arched. "But I would be very grateful if you'd see that, when someone enters this building, they are actually _seen_. Do not let me come downstairs to find either of you idling again. Now, Ms. Woeburne." He about-faced upon the dark-haired lurk of a woman, ire decreased, but hardly affectionate. She blinked back at him, a patient prefect. "Wait there one moment. Joelle will call for a driver take you home."

Chunk nearly choked on his mouthful of condiments.

"_'_Ms. Woeburne?" he coughed out – a strangled sound – wheeling around in the lopsided desk chair to stare wildly at her. Serena blinked another time. Ms. Lefevre had already skittered out from her spotless counter to flag down a car.

"Erm. Yes, I am," she acknowledged, swollen nose and olive eyes wrinkling. The lady looked like she'd recently been in a fight. But the expression was one of confusion and poorly-hidden repulsion, not fear. Her interest immediately shifted back to Sebastian, who was en route to the elevators at a brittle clip. "Thank you, Sir," she called after, thin accent sagging awkwardly in the resonance of a vacant midnight lobby. "That would be much appreciated. As was everything. Is everything."

Mr. LaCroix brushed her gratitude away, poking a dismissive wave through the automated doors. He did not stop or turn around again. You could only glimpse his hand and its neat, pressed sleeve.

"Good-night!" Ms. Woeburne tried, but the _bing_ of the lift cut her off.

Chunk was flabbergasted. One large hand pawed shredded cheese off his desk while the other fumbled for a cellular phone. He must've seen this same woman walk by Joelle's post at least a dozen times in the past month, but never bothered to learn her name, figuring there'd be little use. New workers came flittering in and out of Mr. LaCroix's life weekly, hawk-profiled and moving with a classist shuffle-walk. This one wasn't much different – made of unsmiles, goth-kid lipstick, seamed stockings and bad-tempered shoes. It was an ordinary appearance around this place. She looked like a cross between a marketing ball-buster and a porno librarian.

Not that a watchdog on-call would be caught dead watching pornography.

Pieces whirled into place. Of _course_. He should've inferred it was too convenient for coincidence, shouldn't have needed a third-party appeal to detect danger sense. This wasn't just some spooky Thatcher; the woman in front of him, fast-talking new arrival, was all frost and hard corners because her _actual_ job had little to do with number-crunching. The clues were all there: staunch English, somber clothing, aloof, prickly demeanor. Some kind of femme fatale twist on a Bond black-and-white. Lily's confession confirmed it, but the signs glared at him now. She screamed superspy. Maybe investigating Corporate America for big-name bank frauds or long-forgotten records of communist funding? Bernie wondered if Mr. LaCroix knew, but wouldn't jeopardize the mission by asking such a barefaced question. Her identity might have already been compromised.

More importantly: what do you imagine was in that sleek black portfolio bag? Chunk had always assumed it was full of income charts or cosmetic products, but she could just as easily have been slinging semi-automatics.

Bernie tugged fiercely at the knot of his tie. This was probably the first hardcore operation he'd ever encountered.

"Wait!" Officer Krantz cried, flipping open his cell. Woeburne stopped three feet from Venture exit to slice him with a sub-zero look. "Hang on a minute, there, ma'am. Sorry to detain you, but this is important. Kid around here – Lily Harris – says you're missing persons. She's been looking all over LA for you. Seeing as how I've found you…" That bottle-green stare hit the freezing point. Chunk winced, slapping a few lame repairs on his word choice. "Now that you're here, I mean. You really ought to give the girl a call. If that's OK with you. It being, um. Technically none of my business, after all."

The agent honed in on his cell with needle-point precision. "Correct," she granted, but left Bernie no room to recover. Krantz was oddly put-off. "_Absolutely_ none of your business. Put that phone down. Anyway, I've already spoken to Miss Harris. You know what about this, exactly?"

"Don't worry, ma'am," Chunk promised, clapping the device shut. He tucked it back into his button-down pocket. "Miss Harris was real discreet. She told me everything was just on a need-to-know basis. Barely said anything at all – just name, workplace, the basics. And I sure didn't pry any further. Because, you know…" The guard flashed her an unspoken, important look. Sparse eyebrows curved inches from the glossy bald crown. "_Your_ line of business."

Serena stared hard without quite making eye contact, as one might to a jabbering schizophrenic on the city bus.

"I… see," the woman said narrowly. Bernie nodded, gratified she would acknowledge his implication so directly.

"No trouble, ma'am. I'll keep my nose clean – these, ah, 'delicate matters' can get very sticky, I understand. We've been briefed on protocol for things like this. Just wanted to let you know you've got someone out here watching your back."

"Right," she murmured. Then there was a distant car-horn, a summons from the flustered Ms. Lefevre, and their five-minute secret meeting had come to a close. The potbellied guard watched Woeburne turn around – a skewed, distasteful look denting her face – and push through those waiting double-doors.

"Be safe!" Chunk hollered after her, waving a flabby arm. "I mean, have a good night."

Serena would never understand why, every shift from then on out, Officer Krantz always seemed to toss her a knowing little wink.


	20. The Ivory Tower

**The Ivory Tower**

Serena, frankly, thought the idea was genius.

She'd distractedly thumbed her way through California State University's library, a place the Ventrue all but waltzed into, not so much as a security guard or locked door to dissuade her. There was a shamelessly plagiarized anthropology dissertation tucked under one arm and stack of random books under the other. The coffee-stain on her blouse had been put there purposely, and the unhealthy shades of death had been rewritten under an obscene amount of blush. It made the mildly resentful Ms. Woeburne look as girlish as she possibly could for a body some sixty years old. Even her glasses, freshly replaced, had been tucked into a head of dark, disheveled hair. All in all, Serena thought she looked human enough - accidentally sexy, academically harried, newly grown-up and desperate for tuition pay.

It grated Ms. Woeburne that she had become a caricature of her past life, but, as always, there was method to the madness. And there was the sticking knowledge that Sebastian had, initially, called for his Childe because he needed a trustworthy fieldworker to run interference. That plan had likely dissolved alongside the Anarch diablerist, but changing job descriptions didn't mean Serena had to forsake espionage entirely. She was not very practiced at this sort of thing, true – her acting skills had never been stellar – but Ventrue knew how to sell, market strategies or false personas. Besides, the current target was no Jyhad instigator or rebel figurehead; no deserving clan member fails at hoodwinking some ridiculous Toreador ghoul.

Ms. Woeburne had done considerable investigation into Dr. Ernest Wilhelm's life. He specialized primarily in pre-industrial cultures, a topic which didn't offer many career paths outside academia. Nevertheless, his last twenty-or-so years had been busy; he'd delivered a multitude of presentations nationwide, cashed a few grants, flickered to and fro between university residences. The Nagaraja's relics came into his possession during a recent Côte d'Ivoire sabbatical-turned-summit for indigenous art dealers and opportunistic anthropologists. Poor Ernest had no idea what he'd waltzed into by picking up those hook-limbed totems. Serena doubted Baron Abrams did, either - he'd likely acquired this traveling doctor as a conversation piece for his parlor shelf, much as he'd in turn collected the ominous black wood dolls.

Professor Wilhelm was no wheeling-dealing ghoul reconnaissance officer. He was moderately moneyed, nearly as old as she was, and tossing around the idea of writing another largely ignored book on the hunter/gatherer peoples of West Africa.

Ms. Woeburne wished she'd known ahead of time that Professor Wilhelm also happened to be a graying old pervert.

As it was, Serena realized she'd yawned through a great deal of research for nothing. This scientist's scrutiny was nowhere near his companion's forged thesis; instead, steel-gray and squinting, it'd been fixed for the past fifteen minutes directly down the shallow opening of her shirt. This development made finagling information out of him incredibly easy. Unfortunately, it also made not slapping the unshaven prat in his slobbery mouth equally difficult. She was inquiring about useful footnotes to substantiate her phony paper whilst Dr. Wilhelm was apparently forming a hypothesis about Ms. Woeburne's cup size.

"At this point, Professor, I think what I could really use is some…" Harsh citrus lit the back of her tongue. Revulsion. Sebastian and that inquisitive witch he'd bargained with had better honor the depths to which she sunk for this. There was no use stalling, however. Negotiations were Clan Ventrue's bailiwick, and while Foremen were not exclusively market tigers, men loved double-entendres. "Some hands-on experience. That might help me beyond anything else. At the very least I could sketch a few illustrations to accompany the text. Unfortunately, I've been poking around to no avail in that regard. Even the museums have stonewalled my requests - put a twenty-page waitlist on my lap, told me to try back." She forced out a dry, crinkling grin. "I don't suppose you might know of someone I could contact? Oh, please-" The woman manufactured a blush by covering her nose with one abashed hand. There was a wince beneath. She tittered, hating him. "Am I a sophomore? Forget I asked – how cheeky. I'd never impose."

"Oh, it's quite all right." How noble! Ernest had managed to rip his stare from her cleavage and reinstate it somewhere nearby Ms. Woeburne's face. Her smile grew as he offered a harmless one back. She considered picking up one of the tomes beside her and sailing its spine into that lopsided grin of chemically white teeth. "There's nothing wrong with a little imposition for the sake of research. I could, actually, make a call or two for you right now," Wilhelm announced, a puff of a slowly-sunken chest. He had a receding fork of dark blond hair that had bleached itself musty pastel. "But never-mind that for a moment. I'm about to make your day, Miss… Scott, was it?"

"It was," the vampire shot back, her crunched-paper grin, its trademark sting. _Anna Scott_ – an easy name to remember. She'd stolen it from a housemistress with watery eyes and affection for wards that made the young, standoffish Serena uncomfortable; in the service of predators, funny to remember some kindly old woman now.

"Well, Miss Scott. As a matter of fact, I've just added a shipment of fetishes like the ones you're describing to my private collection. Now, I _could_ dial up the curator and ask her to bump you up their line. But you still wouldn't be able to study the items as thoroughly as I'm sure you'd like. Far better, I'd think, to just drop by my home on a free evening. I'll be happy to let you poke and prod to your heart's content." He had already begun to write down his address and telephone number on a stray post-it. Speckled hands manipulated the ballpoint pen with practiced, heartbreaker ease.

"Doctor Wilhelm, I couldn't inconvenience you like that. You must be so busy," Serena gushed. She fantasized about driving her shoe heel into the man's big toe. "With the new book, you know."

"Nonsense. There's nothing more important to me than the cultivation of good, wholesome students." (Ms. Woeburne was sure.) "Perhaps you could drop by Saturday?"

Three days of idling in her apartment, twiddling her thumbs? As if any Childe of a Prince had that luxury. Saturday would not do.

"I wish I could, but… I'm sorry, this is so embarrassing." She faked another flush, just for added effect, all eyelashes, all filial respect. "I've got a minor surgery scheduled this weekend. Wisdom teeth. I'm afraid I'll be laid up all through next week over it." Wrinkling old bastard would like that excuse, she guessed; it set Anna Scott in her early twenties, barely graduated from local jailbait, let alone a reputable academy. "Is there any way you might be able to squeeze me in beforehand? Thursday, perhaps? If that works with you, of course."

"Thursday's no good," Wilhelm answered, brow furrowing with disappointment. Ms. Woeburne guessed the wife would probably be in – either that, or another eager schoolgirl. "Tell you what: why don't you just drop by tonight? I'll be heading home right after I finish up here. You can accompany me, if you'd like."

"Yes. That would be perfect," Serena lied through her gritting teeth.

The cab ride was uneventful – but only because Ms. Woeburne wouldn't classify some withering man's awkward attempts to slide his palm up her knee an 'event.'

Despite how satisfying bearing fang and scare the piss out of him would've been, it was best to retain her identity as a frustrated kine student. There was little need to phone one's Baron master after visits from undisruptive, pasty little girls; Camarilla inquiries were something altogether different. Serena couldn't know how supernaturally-informed Ernest Wilhelm was, but Mr. LaCroix had been painstakingly clear: she was _not_ to provide Isaac with any more political ammunition, Nagaraja ambitions be damned. This was no serious damper on Ms. Woeburne's plans, having already experienced enough Anarch culture to leave impressions (and scars). It did, however, make manipulating the professor somewhat inconvenient. She was fairly secure in her ability to Dominate this lecherous ghoul, whatever his intellect, but less-confident about a successful follow-up.

If she could just manage to slip in and out – what an innuendo – of this townhouse without revealing any vampiric seams, the rest of her night would be passing peachy.

And it was certainly doable, given her host's apparent disposition… not to mention his fingertips, which were currently pressing down on Serena's outer thigh. The woman had kissed university frat-boys whose suggestions were less heavy-handed; much as she would've enjoyed cracking an elbow into his nose, better by far to merely toss her ruffled brown hair and twinkle occasional low-lidded looks. The scathe of a healed nose did nothing to hinder them. Ms. Woeburne had spent an embarrassing amount of time hunched before a new bathroom mirror last night - pinching, wrinkling and twitching the bridge of her snout until it could sneak up and sting no more.

Getting out unscathed wouldn't be much of a challenge, she decided. No doubt Ernest would call the police when a handful of precious artifacts vanished from his home. In that endeavor, however, all Ms. Woeburne could offer was: _'Good luck hunting down Anna Scott.' _So long as the anthropologist felt he'd no legitimate grounds to speak with Baron Abrams about this humiliating little theft, Serena and her Sire would emerge on the other end of tonight as two happy Ventrue clams. She imagined Ms. Pisha, a cryptic name with a horrible curse, would be delighted, as well.

Ms. Woeburne hoped the Prince didn't expect his Childe to waltz up and shake their client's hand in-person, though. Granted, she'd never met a bona fide member of the Nagaraja, but this demonology business already made Serena's fine hairs stand on end. Not Sebastian, though. He ate up things occult with knife-and-fork these past few decades – probably just for the sake of spitting it back out again, suspicions dismissed. Quite a hobby, if you asked his bailiff (no one did). But at least it was reasonably easy to accommodate.

Professor Wilhelm's residence turned out to be a rather impressive red brick townhome. The building's architecture was snug, vertical, and three stories high in rich tones. Amber paneling mixed with terra cotta. Inside, a soldierly file of small-paned windows opened the ivy-green walls. Unsurprisingly, adornments boasted in every bare angle – framed awards, enlarged photographs of Sahara safaris, a multitude of painted wood sculptures. Display cabinets crowded the walls. And over each room lingered a stagnant, textbook scent that could not quite be defined… a perfume of world-traveler must, antique collections and scholarly pomp. All in all, it was every bit the stuffy haven Serena pictured - a home built to impress, a wandering teacher's bachelor pad.

Ernest tossed his keys onto a foyer end-table and made a gentlemanly show of taking Ms. Woeburne's jacket. "Well, here we are. Please get comfortable. Kick up your heels in the den and help yourself to a drink from the kitchen, if you'd like; there should be a decent merlot open. I'll go bring a few pieces up from the basement."

_Right_.

The moment his slightly hunched back vanished down a nearby stairwell, Serena began her business - the business, that is, of professional snooping.

It was not as though she aimed to bag worthy finds up here; the relevant items were obviously stored with his downstairs assembly, and would require a lengthy diversion to acquire. Nevertheless, it behooved wise Kindred to investigate their surroundings. Perhaps Dr. Wilhelm kept some intriguing tidbits in his desk drawers; maybe he tucked useful information in overstocked bookshelves. Ms. Woeburne immediately checked between the Gideon Bible (ghouls – academics, on top of that – were not often devout Christians) and a deadly hardcover copy of Ovid's _Metamorphoses_. She upturned nothing but two palmfuls of dust.

Next came the furniture. Serena ran her hands quickly beneath the cushion folds of two reclining chairs and a crosshatched teal couch. They coughed up little more than tumbleweeds of lint and spare change, both of which the Ventrue had no interest in keeping. Ms. Woeburne wasn't sure what she thought to stumble upon. The items Prince LaCroix instructed her to recover were by no means secreted inside pillowcases. She certainly did not expect to procure a hidden pistol. Again, Professor Wilhelm didn't seem dangerous… but it never hurt to be absolutely _sure_. The Foreman always wanted to be sure. Overconfident agents soon became extinct agents, as Sebastian had so often reminded his unblooded Childe.

Serena had just rifled through a drawer of receipts in the dining hall when Dr. Ernest returned, tie limp around his neck, three buttons missing on the man's striped shirt.

_Oh, hell._

A grin so mechanized filed across Ms. Woeburne's lips that the whites of her teeth might've been reset bowling pins. Professor Wilhelm – ramshackle Casanova – smoothed back a fork of sallow blond and issued forth his most debonair smile. The man was all gumline and pine tree cologne. Before sidewinding up to his waiting quarry, he paused only a moment – one moment to set aside the heavy trunk that was tucked under one arm. It clinked its contents on the large dinner table. Serena knew her Prince's prize lay tucked inside, saw a key stuck inside the lock. Only a single mortal obstacle now remained between Camarilla officer and well-paid victory.

Pity it had to be such a god-awful obstacle. _'Sebastian better appreciate this…'_

Ms. Woeburne, feeling in no way nubile or vixen-like, dropped her left hip and simpered forward. She barely entered arm's reach before an overeager Dr. Ernest flattened a palm against her Ventrue derriere and brought Serena stumbling against his chest. Her nails looked very distinctly purple against the tangled undergrowth of chest hair. She was overpowered by a locker-room scent of cologne and anti-dandruff shampoo.

Somehow – _somehow_ – Ms. Woeburne turned her natural grimace into a smile. It left pink lipstick smeared across his rumpled collar.

"You know," the vampire-turned-schoolgirl said, English tapering until it was not a disciplinarian sting but a tease. Her jaws tightened. Both forearms draped themselves around Wilhelm's shoulders as he fumbled with the practical mechanics of navigating beneath her blouse. "I really should document those artifacts you mentioned."

There was a look of irritated disbelief in the man's stare. "Now?" he pleaded, brows furrowing, cupped hands retracting from the Ventrue's body, which had since gone stiff as a board.

"Work before pleasure," she chided, waggled one finger, and watched Professor Wilhelm heave a theatrical sigh. With nothing else to say, he resentfully snatched her neat paper stack off the nearby table, proceeding to lunk back into his living room. The man moved like a foiled Igor. Just around the corner, Serena heard sofa springs; he flopped wearily into the same furniture she'd just weapons-checked. It was a little play-acted tantrum. She waited several minutes to be assured he had settled himself into the dissertation– standing still, patient, ears tweaked for reading sounds. They were forthcoming. There was an annoyed, sulking note to each papery turn.

Marvelous.

She clicked open the worn trunk, and peered into blackness.

It was a good fifteen pounds of indigenous art, she estimated - a great deal more than Ms. Pisha had requested, and far too angular to simply skirt under her compromised top. There would be no smuggling them all out without creating ruckus in the process. Hardly worth it; while Woeburne was still a relative unknown in Los Angeles, she'd garnered a very negative sort of attention, the sort enemies watch with suspicious eyes. And _Rosebud Flush _was not exactly the high art of disguise. Being identified through rough description might be enough to cause Sebastian trouble... troubling one's Sire, naturally, being a surefire route to decreased standards of living or simply _no_ standard of living, at all.

Not worth it one littlest bit They were not even attractive sculptures - not even something you could hang on your alcove and admire.

Serena considered the pieces carefully. She gently removed each item and arranged them across the dustless redwood tabletop, eliminating those that did not meet her employer's description. Soldier-men, he'd said; tiny people, rifles in miniature. It was disturbing to hunt for a voodoo image so easily applied to yourself. She cast aside four animal carvings, a bubble-wrapped mask, and what appeared to be some sort of decorative cudgel before success arrived in the form of thin, eyeless spearman made from charred bark. It was strangely heavy for such a petite size. No eyes, no - but a horrible, ugly, terrified grimace ripped into the small black face.

Rooting through the box yielded three of them in total. They were all oddly cool against her fingertips, bone-brittle, and gave Serena a serious case of The Creeps.

Ms. Woeburne grimaced herself and quickly scooped away the packing peanuts she'd spilled. She wondered vaguely – stuffing each totem into her over-packed purse – if Dr. Ernest would much miss these particulars of his Côte d'Ivoire treasure trove. Perhaps he'd barely notice. Then again, it was equally possible he'd throw a scandalized fit to the larceny department, unable to finish his newest book without them. While it this might've stirred hot water for a guilty thief, Serena allowed herself to feel a little gratified, listening as the dramatic mutters leaked in from Wilhelm's den. How often, after all, does one get such an unexpected and unpunishable stab at a magnificent sleaze? He reminded her vaguely of the father of some pretty young man she'd wasted time with - a tanned, bowtied father who'd met her at a brunch, taken one look, then harrumphed a passing grade and ignored the wallflower in his midst. He was an investment banker of a miniscule world. She was just a squirt of a thing, maybe twenty. That sot had meant nothing - less than his son, the pretty young man (whose name she can't remember), had meant, which was to say absolutely nothing at all. But it had been a very long time since Miss Woeburne felt so offended, and it was a very long time until she felt so offended again.

What had happened, you ask, to the pretty young man? Oh, something, probably. Someone, to be sure. She had tired of him and stopped answering his letters. She grew disinterested with his way of talking and his body and his terribly forced, terribly cute notions of pomp. It was enough of a glimpse to satisfy. A glimpse, a sample; she didn't really care to know many young men much better than that.

And she didn't really care to know anything more of these idols, these blind soldier-men who looked and locked in such a familiar way.

Ms. Woeburne wrestled with the zipper, broke her purse, then sagely decided to forsake this whole con artist routine and just climb out a damn window.

Serena peeked quietly around the dining room threshold. Poor duped Professor Wilhelm was still proofreading away, grumpily unaware, palm heel reddening his pouting chin. He'd stay there for fifteen minutes before impatience got the best of him. That was a sufficient timeframe for an easy escape; she turned around and chose a relatively harmless-looking bay, one that opened into soft darkness rather than security lights or noisy cement. There were three hideous squeaks when the Ventrue unlatched and pushed it. Not enough to disturb her languishing host, perhaps; she called "Mind if I open a window?" anyway, just to be safe. He gave a passing harrumph that could have fallen straight from that meaningless slice of her memory.

That settles that.

Deeming her first catburglaring moonlight a victory, Ms. Woeburne slid one leg outside, then the other. She double-checked the height and the landing pad one final time. And, with an indulgent harrumph of her own, the Foreman dropped unheard to the wet backyard grass.

She didn't alert anyone. She didn't sprain anything. She didn't even dirty her casual pants.

Quite pleased with herself for having acquired the objects in question _and_ evaded a tabletop tryst with Dr. Ernest Wilhelm, Serena dusted her outfit, stepped over a lovely daffodil bunch, and away she strolled down the city sidewalk.


	21. Where the Sharks Hunt

**Where the Sharks Hunt  
**

Nobody notices sidewalk.

No matter how long you live in a city, a town, a paved bit of civilization, you never bother taking the time. You never just stop and study it. You never search cracks but to trip over them, and you never question the texture but to lodge complaints with Public Works. Busy individuals (like you) don't have cause to scour something that mundane, that constant – so it was unlikely many recognized the fine details of sidewalk in downtown Los Angeles.

If you _did_, however, find a reason, the first thing you'd probably note was its warmth. Not egg-pan scorching, not a cook-the-skin-off-your-knees broil, but a wavelength of dry California heat. It wasn't altogether clean. Neither was it very well-kept, as sidewalks go, bits chipping off and rain warps filling with mud. When summer evenings were at their most oppressive state, however, cement could almost be pleasant – it felt cool, oddly soothing, and, in these small hours, quiet.

You'd be surprised what you notice about sidewalk while your face is smashed into it.

"Let's blind this bitch," the Sabbat slurped, lips wrinkling like a mad dog. His fat-soled construction boot pressed into the back of Lily's skull. "Let's rip out its eyes, dump it in the woods and leave it for a sunrise. Piece of trash mongrel. Worthless waste of blood."

He stepped, matting orange hair, grinding down her cheek so that she could not look up at him. There was no desire to look up at him. She had seen enough, heard enough, been numbed stiff and dumb enough – need not stare into the mangled lupine face about to kill her. There was a dark, shaggy mane; a razor mouth, revving inhumanities; a urine-yellow glare. The pupils might have been red.

"Abominable fuck," the man with him spat - a man with him spat. She did not know what breed they were. She did not know if there were two or three.

The boot behind her head gouged itself into Lily's ribs. Her mouth opened to a yelp that sounded like Animal Control; there was no chance of making it into words. She groped for both sides and left bloodprints with raw hands. Instinct sucked every limb tightly inward towards her center; artificial light swirled in the alleyway overhead.

Why in the hell would she take a shortcut?

It was easy to deride stupidity in hindsight. Lily couldn't believe she would do that – think so little about stepping off the streetlit thoroughfares and into a place where _things like this_ happened. They had been chased from enough beachheads and wharfs. She had gulped down enough scares and stones. Ms. Woeburne had warned the Sireless neonate often enough about organized threats, violent possibilities she must endure as a youngling of such weak lineage; the Ventrue cautioned her to never be caught alone in a ditch after dark. _"I'm sure you _feel_ stronger, but don't let fresh blood go to your head,"_ she'd instruct, not quite bothering to glance away from business reports, having heard a harebrained comment._ "You're not as unkillable as it would have you believe. You are not the only monster on these streets. You are a small fish and small fishes oughtn't swim where the sharks hunt."_

Generally Ms. Woeburne was too preoccupied for conversation. Company deadlines and staff meetings meant even the most basic advice was a rare prize from her standoffish employer, but the thin-blood, desperate for tutelage, always listened. It was hard to like much of what that woman said - she painted a grim picture, all blacks and grays, and dressed in tones of the same color. Lily tried to heed her anyway. And Christ, she _hated_ getting tripped into trouble, whether it was her own or someone else's. Under normal circumstances, frightened fledglings didn't waltz casually into deep shadows… but she'd been running late - yes, running late for an appointment with Serena. She'd forgotten her cell on the bedside table, couldn't find a payphone, and felt obliged not to make the sour-faced Ventrue worry. She wouldn't have ventured outside the relative security of late rush otherwise. She wasn't a dumb girl. She wasn't a fool.

_"Well, I won't lie that life will be easy for you with the condition you've got. Because it won't be. Obviously. Relatively,"_ Ms. Woeburne had put it, a curt response to a question she found silly, a twitch at the tip of her nose. It was a little convex and admirably strong. It tickled a bit when the Ventrue said something she resented having to say. It was as perfect as a nose could be for the staunch, unsmiling face it fit. But Lily could still see that snap blooming gross purple all across the purebred bridge. _"Nevertheless, it's quite possible for you to survive, so long as you're smart about how you do it and with whom. We all should err on the side of caution. So be fearful, yes, by all means do - but not so fearful that you do something foolish and get yourself killed."_

Maybe she was the kind of fool who just didn't know how frightened small fishes ought to be.

'_I can't believe this is how I'm going to die,' _some part of Lily's brain swished distantly. It wasn't necessarily heartrending - not compared to what this could've been, anyway - more unexpected than anything else. As much as Harris had been told to fear and and as bleak as her life prospects were, there were still human vestiges lingering beneath undeath, vestiges that held fast to a less gruesome vision of The End. They were trite and idyllic: rocking chairs, afternoon sun tea, tulip hair curlers, grandkids' portraits and maybe a lap dog to keep her feet warm. There's some stupidity for you, Lily thought, a snort in the back of her mind. Tea would've flushed her stomach out and there would be no kids of any kind. The reality and consequences of being this _thing_ were more brutal than punches; she tried not to obsess, tried not to depress herself, but failed to fully internalize how close danger was.

A veneer of agelessness made calculating your killing hard. Peril was commonplace and supernatural now, but even when it had been a subject for news specials, you never pictured yourself being murdered. Not by cultists, a confused crackhead, stray bullets, some drunk's car wheels or otherwise.

"Murdered" probably wasn't the right crime – not for her. "Culled" edged closer. "Exterminated" fit.

Exterminated was the resignation word.

When a swimmer is drowning, they do not flail and scream themselves hoarse. There is rarely a splashing havoc made. Too much water floods the lungs, soaks their energy, sucks all focus away from anything that is not oxygen. The dying body is a master of by-the-second priority. You can sacrifice the long-range hopes of rescue, of dry land, for the short-term necessity of breath. _Keep breathing_, adrenaline drums as the death rushes in. Lily kept breathing. She needn't respirate, but stopped shouting minutes ago - when another single instant of life began to outweigh the fantasy of softer ways to die. And she was not sure why; it seemed simpler, cleaner, to abandon pleas; it seemed smarter to mimic the way limping caribou lay down for hungry wolves. All four grim walls of her fear had shrunken down to suffocate – what panic remained circled on how these wolves might hurt her before they tired of their kill and moved to bite off its air. There was no time to ponder about hell or penance, if either thing existed. This was a life-cycle. She was just going to die. She was going to slip quietly beneath a wave when the last kick was kicked and her chest couldn't inflate anymore.

Lily supposed the last concern - as her shoulder popped in the socket and someone's heel went _crunch - _the most real concern was the Childe she'd made. She could see his face through the alternation of numbness and pain. How was E going to manage his life without her? The sore spot of Sirelessness surpassed the sting of shoes or knuckles or improvised bats. Having known it personally, and constantly, she felt sick to chain the ball upon her own – by choice or by bludgeoning force – but it was beginning to look inevitable, and pragmatic worries overshadowed sympathy for the man left to survive her. _'Will he even know how I died? God, I hope he doesn't have to wonder about it for years. I hope whoever tells him does it gently. I hope he finds Serena. Maybe she could help him learn, make sure he does better than I did…'_

A hard plastic toe slammed into her stomach and scattered all these tiny hopes. Lily turned viciously head-over-heels, choking mightily when a streetlight pole halted her. Her middle wrapped around it like a horseshoe. Groping fingers – a hand that turned out to be her own – reached up to touch their face and came away cupping blood. Both nostrils leaked steadily. There was a cut in her forehead, just under the hairline, dying everything a foulest kind of crimson. She mindlessly tongued for missing teeth.

"-has enough of this shit in my patrol, in our city. Bitch Prince doesn't tolerate it, monkey Sheriff doesn't tolerate it; I sure as fuck am not going to. This one is going to be our message. I want it stuck up on the pier like that serial son-of-a-bitch, somewhere those sympathizing fucks will see it. I want its fangs on a rope." The leader of the trio - their ugliest, most mangled alpha - had been speaking, his breath thick, his foot on the scruff of her too-red red hair. She was unable to pull away without tearing scalp. And because the thin-blood could not turn her head, she had to look, to see. Lily saw the scars lanced deep into his face, weeded with stubble; saw disgust in the dense, loping posture of his body; saw vermeil eyes squinted beneath a greasy copper shutter of Gangrel mane. There was so little recognizably civil about it. You had to wonder what a maw like that had seen, but you did not want to know. "Piss-blood lick! Stop squirming. Stop fucking crying," he snapped when she winced, sniveled. Her eyes pressed shut as fiercely as they could. Her teeth gritted hard from the sting at her head, but her hands were afraid to move.

"Let's take her somewhere, then. Can't do that here. She'll bleed out." Another man had said so, casual as a lab dissection, far beyond her line of sight. Sediment was packed beneath every nail. They shook there, palms-down, growing dull, pathetic stubs of claw. Her Beast was a runt and scratched uselessly across the sidewalk. It was mercifully cool.

"Then she bleeds out. I'm going to get those teeth."

Lily did not think she'd cried - did not think she squirmed or hollered - but he'd said it, and she heard it, and then the pressure behind her skull moved.

It landed neatly, and perfectly, onto the tremble of her left hand. She had to look. She saw it all.

"Just told your stupid ass not to move," he snarled, but now the woman really was screaming. Her eyes bulged and her spine racked and the sight of that edge slicing into the large-bone veins wrought horror again, sudden and fresh, a final burst, a final thrash before seawater took her under. "Who the fuck does this whelp think she is? Walk right onto our territory, like you got some kind of leave to feed here? You got no right to cry to me. You got no right to exist. Shut the fuck up!"

The iron tip of that southwestern boot lifted again - mashed itself against Lily's solar plexus this time, cruelty to quash everything out. There was a burn. She curled by reflex, rolled away from that flickering lamppost to hug her abdomen; it was a bad choice, a hasty call. They grabbed and flipped the fledgling prone onto her back. It was not where she wanted to be - so far away from where she wanted to be - and the bulb overhead blinked out the faces there. She clawed and howled and thrashed as violently as she could. It might not have mattered. It dribbled fresh blood over the blistered lip and onto her t-shirt.

This seemed to provoke when noises did not, and Lily watched with a sort of fishlike, teen-flick horror as the Sabbat standing over her swept down. A rubber sole, someone else's, stomped the thin-blood's wrist to trap it; failing legs dropped like lead, knees locking. Then another man had her tennis shoe, and she felt pastel pink slide off the foot – saw it ricochet off into a sewage grate. They pried apart and pinned her ankles so that she could not fight at all. She tried to bite something. The Gangrel straddled her on the asphalt and clamped her throat to hold her down.

Lily's neck in one fist and nothing in the other, he pulled an army knife from his coat, flipping it open. Scents of rotting leather and rust. Steel whipped across the neonate's cheek, a test of the edge; caught a raw hook of crescent moon; ripped through her cotton shirt from bottom-to-top, sending buttons plinking away. _They were going to pull her apart, pull her apart! _They were going to take her to pieces like birds with soft bread. She saw the polka-dotted center of her bra snap, centimeters from the sternum beneath. They were going to pop all her ribs, destroy her heart; strip out the contents of her chest. Lily could already taste the cruor in mouth, in mind. She could feel how disembowelment would be when the vampire pressed her temple against the asphalt and prepared to dig that point into her gums; right above the cuspid; right where, in third grade gym class, she'd fallen off a rain-slick beam and hit it on the monkeybars-

Something exploded against his right shoulder, splattering dead flesh into the air, and tore a scream from the animal like a gunshot.

It _was_ a gunshot.

And further down the alley behind them was a gun – one black eye glaring through a puff of smoke. And behind that gun was a man.

"Missed," he chuffed.

The new voice, an easy east Missouri brogue, echoed. It sounded mildly bemused and pointedly hostile. But more importantly - most importantly - it was a voice Lily Harris had never heard before.

Its suggestion was not sporting. That comment, flippant and small, provoked a real moment of second-thoughts; it declared where the bullet could be, promised he had not _missed_, at all. It upended their evil pleasures and made Sabbat hackles prickle on end. The leader had fallen forward over her with the impact of that cartridge, muscle twisted with the pound of flesh taken, bare fang much too close, a hideous glimpse of bone. She could see the glean of the bullet where it ground to a halt. It doused her, reeked of infection. His paw fell away and his knife clinked blacktop as the large frame overhead tumbled, fell aside; she was suddenly free, no one above her; there was nothing but a moon looking back. Both omegas reached for handguns to return the threat, but no one moved. Shot-out blood cooled on Lily's slack face. You could smell it stick on her; see how it settled on her lids, lashes, open chest. They wouldn't pull their sights from that weapon to be angry at the insult. She couldn't stop staring at the light glinting off its unpainted barrel, an interruption that froze everything, made it all stop.

Stillness upset the confusion. The kill had been relinquished; in the space of a shot, she'd become a tempting missed opportunity. Three pairs of bloodshot predator eyes beheld her with a sort of vengeful, hindered desire. She did not turn her head to see them. She just kept staring at the gun.

Lily was now a non-issue. Instead, the stricken Sabbat clenched, grabbed for his injury – a far more pressing topic – fingers sinking in to stem the flow. He struggled to stand. He made it only to his knees.

"SON-OF-A-BITCH," the Gangrel roared from where scarlet pooled around him, leaked into the tarmac cracks. He'd rolled onto the street, puffing and rasping, chops pared. Brown tangles glimmered with sweat and bits of loose tissue. The scent of roadside, carrion and hide hanging about him was amplified with raw meat. "What the f- You fucking sh-"

"Don't speak to me," the new voice cut off, cold-blooded impatience, look granite. He was difficult to discern from her current angle, so Harris only halfway tried, nothing clearer than that pointed pistol. It didn't flick or slump. The contrast of dark hair and face under the failing lamplight made him harder to see. There was nothing teasing or bullyish anymore; the interloper's upper lip twitched as he spoke, prominent canines, deadlier than the gun to an already-dead thing. They paid her no mind, none of them. It was as though he hadn't seen Lily at all. "I didn't give you permission to speak, shovelhead. You can answer one question. Why don't you tell me where the fuck you are right now?"

"Son-of-a-bitch. You son-of-a-bitch. I can't-" The old aggressor – humbled now with insides ebbing out, a chunk of himself taken off – fumbled for something to dam his puncture. Realization of the wicked thing that came his way tonight was dawning, and he gnashed a powerful effort, striving to look dangerous. Those ferocious eyes peeled to a squint. Air huffed uselessly between monster teeth. "Not your business," the vampire finally growled, gullet dry, excuse a pant. "This's got nothing to do with you, Rodriguez. It's not your goddamn-"

"I didn't ask for your opinion, you mangy motherfucker. I asked you where we are."

The Gangrel's wince might have been honest; it might have been distaste at being spoken to with offhand disrespect. His answer didn't come quickly. Both cohorts stood silent, unable or unwilling to fight with patchy jackets and ragged denim; there was a nervous shuffling amongst their ranks. The stranger watched them with violent expectations. Belligerence had become a standoff; this smacked of a point made.

"Downtown," he said, finally – it was a red-handed defeat.

"_Downtown. _That's right. We are downtown," Rodriguez spat, pitch dropping, antagonism high. His weapon was a sharp spur. The eyes that aimed it were a searing, fearfully bright blue, an impossible color above the deadness of sockets beneath them. "_You_ are downtown and so it is ALL my business. I warned you bastards to stay the fuck off my streets once. Get up," he commanded. They obeyed. Lily, half-naked in darkness, wiped someone else's blood off her forehead. Goosebumps pimpled across arms, back slopes and her collarbone. The thin-blood's vision spun. She was having trouble seeing. She couldn't make perfect sense of what was happening around her.

Standing slowly, shoulder trickling, the outfit's captain must've felt his authority crumble. He stank of fear, resent and demise. But "This is _our_ business," he barked anyway, still clinging, still warring for clout. His pipes were heavy with anemia and Alabama, tone showing the corporeal stress. "You got no call to interfere. We aren't killing your people. We aren't fucking with your claims. Ain't shit been done here tonight that hasn't already-"

"Shut up," Rodriguez said.

The Sabbat choked on a lump of his own bile.

"Next time I kill somebody," Rodriguez said.

No one wanted to doubt. They all remained for a few more minutes, uselessly, unsure how to proceed. The eyelets on his combat boots distracted her. She could see the man's face, but couldn't process, didn't recognize a human from a gun. It was one entity. He didn't return her curiosity or her stare.

"On your feet, kid," Rodriguez said, and that was all.

And then she was a person again, an invested party, something with a sense of self. It was a rescue rope like an afterthought. Lily wasn't sure he'd noticed her - that this territory-making included her even in a peripheral sense - and frowned, bewildered, overdriven brain calibrating it all. The thin-blood stood up from her sad square of pavement because there was no argument to have. Her spine hunched, core shrinking, a freckled forearm clasped reflexively over her small breasts. Fleet moonlight slanted off everything. There was nowhere obvious to go, so she backpedaled behind him, looking wildly to the dogs across this street, a blinking and retrieved thing. Standing made her feel tall, vulnerable, out-of-body. She should have run – she should have spun on her only tennis shoe and sprinted down this alleyway, zig-zagging, relying on the protection of brick edifices – but fleeing did not occur. The sudden change was like limbo. She stared, watching it unfurl.

"You're shitting me," the headman growled, hawking spit. He was made of revulsion and aggravations that raked, could see his own blood-spatter on Lily's moonish face. No one else spoke to her. "We'll go. We'll go, Anarch, but we're taking our bounty. It was not hunted in your territory. This is our right – our responsibility – to keep the bloodline inta-"

"How about this? You tuck your tail between your legs and clear the fuck out of my Domain before I call Sabbat season, smoke every last one of you sons-of-bitches, burn up that crackhouse on Santa Fe."

There was a skitter as an ambulance went whirling down the street adjacent.

"Your Domain," the Gangrel snorted, talons lengthening against his own flesh. It was a wildly offensive thing to say to a Vaulderized creature. In light of that sting, he did not seem to notice how the provocation affected his followers – how the thought of combat turned them ashen and callow, scrawnier Kindred, a lower order of wolves. "You're about to bite off more than you can chew, Brujah. _Your_ Domain! What a great big fucking laugh. Sebastian LaCroix sure as fuck thinks so, too. Tell him the same thing? Tell the Prince and his sum'bitch gorilla to get off your yard – leave your motherfucking grass alone? How'd that work out?" he asked, snout wrinkled, a coyote panting blood. Living in the face of unhappy predators was a careful dance between bristling, bowing out and standing your ground. "I guess we'll find out real soon. Considering nobody calls this place a State anymore - and how bad the new Prince wants your head."

Rodriguez said nothing this time. Pale eyes flicked left then right in a second of calculation, of focus. His shoulders tensed. He did not look friendly, and could have used a shave.

"This is why I can't fucking understand what you think you're accomplishing by chasing us down; not when when you've got Elders motioning to string you up. We ain't planning on kicking up our heels. And we didn't come here trying to stir up shit, didn't go looking for trouble with you," the Sabbat reminded, appeal to reason. One mitt still covered the muscle that round tore open. Lily saw Rodriguez's drift slowly around his back.

"Found it, though, didn't you."

"We don't have to do this," blurted one of the other footmen, the one that said _take her somewhere, _that lost her shoe. His form slunk in the past moments, seemed rattled as the thin-blood's. The wan face and scraggled sweep of hair looked plastered with cement powder. "Isn't going to decide anything. No reason to have it out right here; we can step back, just go our separate ways."

"Bright kid." The Brujah didn't flinch or lower his gun.

In an organization, a militia or a violence-cult, grounded leaders do not allow subordinates to bargain in their stead. This sideline ceasefire was unwelcome, reasonable or not; it could not be permitted, and should not be acknowledged. The talkative second looked likely to start hoping soon. A growl from the Gangrel pushed him back in line.

"We don't negotiate with these people," he menaced through the blood in his shirt and the foam on his tongue. A mess of it had clogged the man's tubes, mad dog backbone, seepage all throughout the front of that padded leather. "We deserve what's due to us. We handle this."

"Don't recommend it," Rodriguez cut. He was eerily, abnormally still on the pavement - underdressed for a gunfight, cotton and short sleeves; undermanned by himself; speaking like there was an army at hand. The certainty of that tone made you believe it even when you didn't want to, when the odds said _don't bother_. It held aggression that frightened the better-off enemy. His was a rare, angry kind of calm. "Let me tell you a thing or two about how business works downtown these days. I got a bigger enemy than some shovelheads with baseball bats knocking on my door, so, as you noticed, there are not a lot of things I got time for. And - maybe you also noticed - I lost my patience with you fuckers a _long_ time ago. Leaves you with that lead in your shoulder and a choice to make. You take a minute to consider the situation you're in, who you're in it with. You do the smart thing, cut your losses, live to fight another night. Or I send the next one right through your mouth." He stared. "Think it over."

"You want to know what I think?" the Gangrel asked, a shaky-ground bid, no room for replies. Lower-order wolves; smaller sharks. They gnarred and shivered and tried to look solid. "I think you don't got too much leverage to be making demands of us. I think - instead of preaching bullshit at me, blowing your own goddamn horn - you better take the offer I made you. Since you want to know what I think: I'm thinking _you're_ thinking that same thing right now. And if you ain't-" A choke, another bristle, a splintered growl. "If you're not, let me make things a little easier. Let me introduce you to some basic math, 'Baron': there's one of you, and three of us. We outgun you. You don't get to set the rules."

It was unclear what this ultimatum hoped to gain. Perhaps he thought turning on an armed Brujah would be more hazardous than holding firm with intimidation tactics and long cuspids. Perhaps he was emboldened by his own warrior heritage, shock conditioning and the pressures of flexible demarcation lines. Or there was always the possibility he was a hot-blooded asshole who knew no other way to be but bellicose. Either way, the reaction was probably not what they'd aimed for, and probably not what they'd expected.

A sinister, inadvertent grin ripped its way through the Anarch's lips. He said nothing, but the sight of teeth flustered them - made their feet stomp, hackles rise. It stoked the need to create fear.

"Got more hands; got more firepower. You're fucked, you understand? You can't do shit to us. We got the advantage on you. This isn't your court right now."

There was an awkward pause in which you could see nobody move and hear everyone not-breathe.

Then there was a blur of movement, Rodriguez's free hand leapt up from his hip, and two of them went screaming to the concrete.

It was a big sound and a big splatter of blood. One man had been shot dead through the eyeball, skull shaved; a round ripped into the other's throat. They both went flat. Two Eagles – one nine, one fifty – breathed white into still air.

"Advantage noted, you worthless fuck," Rodriguez said.

The last Sabbat standing gummed on a swear, looked from his seizing packmate to the explosion of ash, and disappeared via a rickety fire escape. It clattered long after the body on it had gone.

And almost faster and meaner than this horrible night started, it finished.

Rodriguez walked over to the boy he'd shot. With no hesitation, he looked down, lifted a pistol, and put two more bullets directly into his chest. It was one unhitched sound: _bangbang. _Chilling insouciance; no more chances; ice in the white corners of his eyes. There was no leeway for astonishment or her strange twinge of empathy. There was no expression on the Brujah's face as everything crumbled away.

Then Lily was on her hands-and-knees in a corner, retching, losing the contents of a stomach she hadn't much use for any more.

Alley blacktop was cold gravel beneath both palms. She tried to throw up the bag of blood from this morning to find her damaged body already sponged it, an effort to heal itself, leaving soreness and hunger. There was no telling the scent of smoke between human cinder and cigarettes. Lily's guts cramped badly; scarlet dried on her upper lip.

"Fucking shovelheads," Rodriguez muttered from where he stood in the ashes of that dead man. "In one piece?"

"Yeah. I'm fine; I'll be fine," she panted out, spits and gasps, not wholly meaning to sound as harsh as she did. The voice that said so was raw and strained. You could see the notches of her spine bowed over behind a dumpster, the muscles clench. Everything burned. He was nowhere near her but she couldn't look up. "Don't touch me. Just let me-"

There was a pop and a dull bang as something jumped out of the trash can beside her. It was just a cat - somebody's cat - but Lily was halfway into a scream before short fur processed. She flipped over and kicked away. The fingers that clamped over her mouth were shaking. The brick wall and ground were cold against her back, through the fabric of cheap pants.

"Fuck, fuck. Oh, _shit_," wrung out, a nauseated squeal, the only thing her belly could expel. She clutched both legs to her bare torso, trying not to be sick again, too traumatized to feel the humiliation. "Oh, God. They were going to KILL me," Lily chattered, the shakes spreading down her arms and into jaw, thighs, shoulders, ankles. Her bleeding nose into the knees of her jeans. Scabbing red smeared from her cheekbone to paint them both. "What the fuck? I wasn't even- I didn't _do_ anything! They were gonna cut my teeth out! Oh, shit – those guys are dead. Fuck." A shudder slashed her from tailbone to throat. She pulled at her hair, now less orange than grime, glancing around for any sign of missing clothes. "Look, I just- I've got to go. I'm really late. I've got to get out of here right now. Where the hell is my... Oh, God, he took my wallet. Where the fuck did it go? Who are you?"

"Wouldn't be the-"

"Why did you do that?" the thin-blood demanded, shrieking her need to know. She hated doubting this left her any safer than with them, but it was a real possibility, too real for anything else. He looked back at her mildly from where, one moment ago, that neonate collapsed into the dust of himself. "What do you want from me? They stole everything I had! I just want to leave; I'm never coming back here…"

"Relax. Fun's all over for tonight." One last scan of the rooftops, both guns back in their holsters, a grin as a treaty. Lily noted proof in the form of sharp vertical fangs. It was a disturbing expression from where he still stood in that blood and ash. "You're all right, anyway."

"Uh-huh," Lily answered lamely. She felt very wispy and her legs seemed like anchors. Without getting close enough to send her scrambling, the Brujah took one critical look, then shrugged off and tossed his jacket at her. It was a poor substitute to get back her dignity, but novice survivors can't afford to be picky. She wrapped it around herself immediately, a sash before navigating the arms properly – transforming coat-to-toga and back-to-coat – snuffing up blood clots that began to form. Buttons were a suitable distraction from the new waves of instinct that were urging her to lurch up and escape. "They just hit me a few times. Ripped my clothes apart. I think the big one tore some of my hair out. This is awful," the fledgling said with a single, tearless sob - frustration, tatters and shame. Her cheekbones seared with the friction of concrete. She did not think to thank him for the shirt.

"Better get up, kid. Nothing to do here."

Lily didn't think she could just _get up_ - make the cords and workings of her limbs work again - but he took a step forward, and then she was on her feet, scampering back.

"I'm sorry; I'm sorry; I didn't know they were following me here. I didn't know I was trespassing. I don't know anything, I swear-"

The man stopped where he was and lifted both hands; it was a strangely normal gesture of harmlessness, of passivity.

"Kinda shows," Rodriguez joked. Lily did not communicate with Brujah, mostly by happenstance and partially by choice. They are not a good choice for those who want to avoid violence. But he was a stark, clean contrast to the Sabbat, at least – reminded her little of cloistered Ms. Woeburne, ceremonial Rolf, or anyone else, really. He stood on a Los Angeles lane in white cotton and denim looking unafraid. The small smile he gave was sidelong authority, a no-pressure, attractive offer made through a no-pressure, attractive grin. "Take a breath, kid. You look like shit."

"Who are you?" She asked again.

"Call me Nines."

Lily's heart stung because her chest was full of air.

"So what happens now?" the thin-blood asked, unaware of the name, too cognizant of the power imbalance between where she'd paused and where he was facing her. There were blunt silver winks at his fingers, wrists, neck, but mostly from the stowed weight of guns.

"What happens now is you explain a few things to me. I'm wondering exactly what a little girl like you is doing hunting my side of town this late at night."

Harris grimaced, suddenly insecure. She twisted inside a stranger's clothes. "I was only trying to get to work," was her excuse, a true one, but no less risky for the vagueness of it. Rodriguez's question sounded equally like it could've been friendly or an interrogation. She saw how his first interrogation ended. "I'm not hunting. I know I can't hunt territories. I wouldn't be out here at all; it's just my car didn't start, battery, so I had to take the bus. Then I forgot my cell, and I couldn't find a payphone, so I… I guess I got turned around, and I was running short on time, and I-" The list was preposterous. There were no indications of his intention in the Brujah's look, but its quicksilver unsettled, seemed beyond death. Her tongue felt tied. She let silence hang.

"_Hmn_," he said.

It sounded disapproving. She swore: "Look, I know what this sounds like, but I don't know what to tell you. I swear I wasn't hunting. It's just," the woman groped unhappily, desperately, growing angry with herself. There was a terrible taste in her mouth, dirty ore and sourness. Her stomach ached as the adrenaline pondered coming any further down. "It's just one of those days."

"I don't care where you hunt. But 'those days' are dangerous, kid. LA is no safe place for someone like you. Keep that in mind next time you decide to detour down a dark alley downtown."

"I'll try," she agreed, emptily, feeling chastised. "I'm still getting the hang of all this. I'm Lily." What else was there to say?

Nines studied her thoughtfully. "I don't remember seeing you around. You somebody's?"

"What?"

"_Who_. Who's your Sire, newbie?"

"Oh. I don't have one. I mean." Lily rubbed her arms, flattening the prickly skin beneath blue short sleeves. "I did. But he's… I don't know. He's gone." (It seemed better than 'he left me,' an explanation that still made her fidget in those persistent, sleepless mornings where inadequacy dragged down.) "I'm not an illegal or anything. I'm not running around out here unaccounted for. Just I haven't been - you know_ -_ very long. And I didn't mean to scream at you, but it seems like everyone else is always trying to chase us off or hurt us or-"

"Seems like that because they pretty much are, kid. These are the mean streets. You broke lucky tonight." Rodriguez tossed a nod towards those two mounds of dust sifting thin across the alleyway. A handgun was strapped at each side, rumpling his undershirt; another nine, now obvious, had hidden beneath the jacket in a shoulder-sling.

"Can I thank you somehow?" she tried, not planning what that meant. It was social reaction. You did not slight those willing to stand between your weak body and hate, fists or teeth. "I mean, shit – you didn't even hesitate. Those guys were serious; they could've done something. They could've shot you." Her arms weren't quite under control, and shook alongside the dazed timbre of Lily's voice. "Hell, I'm like… what for, anyway? I don't even know you, and you pulled me out of there."

He shrugged at her gratitude – looked blasé, unimpressed, maybe a little bored. "Wasn't really looking to. Downtown's just home to me, fledge. I got to live here. So when I see Sabbat starting trouble round my neighborhood, I end it." A half-second grin shot through the stale lamplight. "You were a freebie."

"I don't care; you saved my ass. You're a fucking hero. I have to do something. Here, I-" The fumbling stopped at her barren Capri pockets. _'Oh, right,' _she remembered, wincing, scatterbrained. "I think they took all my money."

Nines Rodriguez didn't seem interested. "Where you live, kid?"

"North of here, on the east side. It's right by-"

"I'll take you home."

It was not a charity she'd anticipated – people like her learn quickly they oughtn't anticipate anything from Kindred, save perhaps prolonged threats. Lily screeched to a halt. She watched wide-eyed and vacillating as he turned around to head off, unsure about following. There was dread yawning from this ill-lit alleyway surrounding her to rival the inborn fear of an older vampire. She couldn't lift her feet.

"'Less, that is, you'd rather stay here," he added, brow cocked over a shoulder, a jab at her lost confidence.

That option was worse than the other, so – hastening forward – she did.

As the second safety breach tonight, Lily didn't argue, picked up her lost pink Nike, and fell into step behind a vampire she didn't know. They were out of that dank byway onto the street proper within minutes. There was still no guarantee of shelter; Rodriguez had little incentive to help, and she kept a healthy distance between her step and his, still not completely convinced he wouldn't harm her. But the thin-blood was fairly sure Sabbat were less likely to fuck with somebody in a Brujah's shadow. Nines did not rush, did not walk like he would've waited. You could see, though, how his line of sight kept flicking back and forth, peripheral attention revealing unease. There was no use presuming why. This had triggered so many questions, so many newborn concerns. She should really ask Ms. Woeburne for a political map, or a guide, or…

A pickup – unmarked plastic crates tied high in the bed – didn't encourage, but she wasn't in much of a position to ask what it was used for. And Lily felt she could venture a pretty solid guess. _'Not as if tonight can get worse, anyway,' _was as reaffirming as thoughts got right about now, climbing in and slamming the passenger door. Her cheek was still bleeding; it went unnoticed. The woman tried to look at nothing. She sunk into upholstery as the engine started, letting exhaustion duck her line of sight. It didn't feel like a haven – but these dark confines, smelling like new car and ammunition, at least got her off the sidewalk. Only politeness kept her from sliding down until lanky limbs and carrot-top vanished beneath a shelf of dashboard.

"I'm really sorry. Really grateful," she mumbled again, palms covering her face. Lily spoke into them for the next ten minutes. They still smelled of cement block and biological copper. She didn't sound like herself. "This kind of thing never happens to me. I don't know what went wrong. Fuck, this is embarrassing. Sorry."

The motion of wheels did not require opening her eyes, and for that, tittering/cussing/apologizing neonates were thankful. They made a right, a left, and then drove straight for a time. It seemed precariously peaceful. The girl listened to that telltale _'clink-clink-clink' _of turn signals for entertainment, distracted, finding them bizarrely comforting.

"Are you like me?" She finally mustered up the courage to ask, peeking over her nail tips. "You know. Thin-blood?"

"No," Nines answered. Two times lucky; he might've been offended. "But there are those in this city who'd like to deal with me just about the same. Where am I going, kid?"

Harris straightened up and looked groggily out the windshield, taking a few seconds to gather her bearings. Thankfully, her cuts had stopped oozing. "Keep going for a couple miles, then right. No, sorry. Left. Left towards Garfield. Why do they hate you?"

The Brujah considered it, eyes fixed on upcoming road. Traffic paused at a stoplight, and dead as they were, Lily apprised them a beautiful color of blue. He didn't look at her. "Same reason everybody hates. I got a subject unpopular to some important people. Outsiders – like you and me – we got to watch out for each other if we're going to survive. A lot of bad vampires in this city out for more than blood. Too many shovelheads like that skulking around to get caught up in all the goddamn infighting. Don't have to agree with me; can't tell me I'm wrong."

"Hell no. I'm not telling you anything," she reassured, almost a laugh. Trembling fingers managed to pull on the missing shoe. Its sock was soaked, laces a lost cause. Her chin sat nicely on one bent, hugged-in knee. "No offense, Nines Rodriguez, but I've never heard of you, so I wouldn't know your subject from a hole in the ground. I'm too green. It's all out of my league."

There was a metal flick in the rearview. "How green are we talking about?"

"Pretty green," she confirmed, not caring about subtlety. Lily didn't know who Nines Rodriguez was, in name or reputation, but did know she could've been destroyed at least a couple times by now. The cortisol rush and subsequent plummet made her chatty, inelegant and overly friendly. She sunk five digits – pinky-through-thumb – into red roots to pull. There was a whistle of wind through cracked windows, clean breeze sopping stomach acids. God, her hipbone really hurt. "More than a year. Almost three, I guess. I'm not really counting days."

"Any ideas on your pedigree?"

"Pedigree. Jesus." A smile wrinkled like a sneer. The term was surreally funny; Harris didn't catch the impertinence of its use (or why he might want that information), but heard his sarcasm, pointed and easier than anything else. There was too much air in here, too much breeze, too much oxygen sweeping out her brain. "I wouldn't even know what to tell you," she confessed – beyond lying, beyond care. "Or what would matter. Or what I actually know. My Sire didn't exactly pass me the family photo album."

"Ventrue?" he guessed. The deduction startled her.

"You're the third Kindred to suggest that to me," she diverted, not knowing to show or tell. Serena had not been clear about the inherent traits of their bloodline, proclaiming genealogy and status a lost cause to _"people in your position"_; Rolf spoke even less on heritage when her defects began manifesting. Those two were the only clanmates she'd met – and both would've squirmed to be thought of so intimately by stunted offspring. You couldn't forget the powerful name behind them. It was a wicked, noble sounding thing to be. "Why do you figure?"

There was a bump of badly-paved road. He _hmn_ed again. "You smell a little Ventrue."

"I do?"

"Little bit," Nines said, checked his watch, and gave one more slack, irreverent shrug. Lily downplayed how she'd sniffed at the crook of her elbow. "Could be wrong."

Could be, but wasn't.

Red blinked to green and let them move on. After so many minutes, Rodriguez must have noticed her reticent stare; he puffed out a sigh, snorted, then shook his head. It looked more like lost curiosity than a retraction or misstep. There was a shotgun duct taped loosely under her chair. "Listen, fledge: forget I asked. Not like this is all that important to you, anyway. You? You got enough on your plate without adding politics to that mess. And, maybe you noticed: Kindred generally don't do a real great job at tolerance." The rust on his thumb ring could have been a bloodstain. "Smartest thing a kid like you can do is stay far away from 'em all."

Rolf stark ice above a collage of bland, sweating faces drowning in bass. Ms. Woeburne glancing coolly over the lip of her laptop.

"It's not that easy," Lily added.

A break in the strand of bleak advice. "What sort of work you do, kid?"

"Nothing like that. I clean on weekends, run chores – housekeeper, kind of." Domesticity and odd jobs had never hit a chord of shame before; now, though, tasting patheticness, she elaborated. It devolved quickly into a ramble. "My client's one of us, of course. A Ventrue, actually. Lives downtown, too, which is why I was wandering around out here. An accountant or PA or organizer or something like that. I'm not exactly sure. My work's all basic manual stuff, though; not high-profile, but I don't mind. Things could be worse. I mean: my boss is a good person, you know? She's just real busy is all."

"Camarilla?"

"I don't know who that is," Lily declined, and for some reason, it made Nines Rodriguez grin.

"Good," he said. "She's a bitch."

There was a tink and a slosh in the back as lanes merged. They prompted the thin-blood to twist around, glance over her headrest, find two warning-red cans of gasoline nestled in one corner of seat. It was a minor thing, a negligible infraction – but somehow, it worsened the sense of illicitness. Harris shivered as a ghost of her pulse prickled hairs from neck to tailbone. This was not what she knew vampires to be. There was an unignorable sense of trouble, of stumbling into a strange part of town, of not being caught where you oughtn't; it would have felt so much better to see something familiar. It would have been so much easier to sit there silently inside clothing that was her own.

At the moment – bruises rising; bridges of hit, kicked body turning yellow and tender; dirt mashed into a dozen shallow scrapes – her own skin did not settle right over Lily's bones. Too much air, hyperventilation; it was like her blood had turned to water, started bubbling. It was getting harder and smaller inside the walls of her chest.

She would be dead right now. _Right now_.

"God, I should've been in two hours ago." LA's halo of smog was already blanching, powdered miasma, a wan shade of nightfall. She shoved up one sleeve; they were too big. The worn fabric tickled even worse than her hackles had. "My boss is going to freak on me. I'm supposed to call if I'm running late, but like I said – no way to do that. Sorry, I shouldn't complain. It's just that she's been through a really rough couple of weeks. And stuff like this can make anyone paranoid. It's funny, I... I keep telling Ms. Woeburne:_ 'I've lived in this town my whole adult life, and nothing bad has ever happened.'_ So I guess the joke's on me, huh?"

"_Woeburne._ Serena Woeburne?" Nines's voice sharpened, pitch tightening, suddenly very interested. For the first time since they started driving, he looked Lily directly in the eye.

"Yeah! You know her?" And all at once, that knot of anxiety melted away, melted, leaving the fledgling feeling gummy and relieved. There was a genuine smile on her face and a warmth in her gut. If they knew the same people, if he'd met Serena... then this was all right. It had to be all right. _  
_

Rodriguez smiled back – effortless, trouble-free, and, all at once, very content.

"Sure do," he said.

It was easy to deride in hindsight; it was easy to see the exact moment everything for Lily Harris changed.

"Tell you what. Why don't you go ahead and give her a call now," the Brujah suggested. He was already reaching into his back pocket, sliding out a phone. It bounced on her knees. "Here you go, kid."

Made tingly and compliant by this common link – a tether back to her actual life, not this supernatural land war – she picked it up and dialed, sandwiching cell between shoulder and ear.

"Thanks a lot. You're really nice." Two rings, another left turn, and the girl allowed herself a fond little chuckle. "You know Ms. Woeburne. She, uh. Worries."

"Couldn't have that."

"Hah. Yeah," Harris echoed, cheeks dimpled with the release of that pent-up breath, unable to stop now. Her blood was her blood again. Her blood was her blood, and this was just a car – not a crunch, not a secret, not a ball-and-chain – and these were just shirt buttons, and that was just a man. She scrubbed a last few brownish flecks away from the bone of her temple. She rolled his sleeves at each shoulder when they wouldn't stop falling down. "It can get pretty bad."

Nines didn't say a word. He just kept on smiling, cool and unruffled as a California sunset.

"Hi, Ms. Woeburne. It's me," Lily immediately reassured the receiver. She raked and reraked loose strands, scrunching up in the seat. "Yeah, sorry. I'm borrowing a phone. Listen, I can't talk long – I just wanted to let you know I can't come by tonight. Well, no. Um… maybe you should sit down." A brief, offended pause from across the line. "Look, I'm OK," the woman announced, the best buffer she could. "But I was attacked tonight, and I think I should just go home. Sabbat. No, they didn't really hurt me. I'm fine, I promise. I'm just sort of shook up. No, you don't need to do that. I'm almost home. Well, that's what I was about to tell you. I got… wow, Jesus. Sorry. It's just kind of unreal. I got rescued, I guess," Lily admitted, a fairytale sentiment in open air, something that would make her scoff unkindnesses had it happened to anybody else. "Some guy came out of nowhere – saved my skin, gave me a lift. No, I don't think so. I mean, I can ask; he's sitting right here. He says it's fine since he knows you. Nines Rodriguez."

Flatline.

The Brujah imagined Ms. Serena Woeburne said something like this: _"GET OUT OF THE CAR RIGHT NOW!"_

"Wait – whoa. What?" Harris cringed as the Ventrue's volume jumped. "Hold on. Why? But- 'Come get me?' Don't do that. I'm only a couple blocks away! It just seems unreasonable to-" But she piped down, then, hit by a barrage of panicked instructions. Her face began to widen and whiten, not knowing enough to react, more scared of her boss's sudden change in demeanor than what this distress implied. "OK, all right. Just slow down. I will. I mean, I'm not going to stand out on the corner until you get here. I'll call you as soon as I walk in the door. Twenty minutes max, okay? Yes, I'm about to right now! Let me hang up."

She clicked Ms. Woeburne off before the Ventrue could scream or finish her sentence.

"OK. This is going to be awkward." Lily began, sucking in that sickly breath she'd only just let out, catching bottom lip between sore front teeth. She stared at her sneakers, put the cellular down. She looked for the appropriate words. "She says I have to get out. Right now. No excuses."

"Did she." There wasn't a bird-eating tom alive that surpassed the self-satisfaction Nines had at that moment. "Let me pull over first."

"Thanks. I'm really sorry. I don't know what got into her. But I don't want to piss her off, you know?" The thin-blood felt for her purse before remembering, again, it had been swiped. She watched wheels tilt towards and stop at a curbside. It was very difficult to turn back and meet her driver's eyes, ordered to escape him while still wearing the vampire's clothes. "Listen. I live right around that corner. It's only two or three blocks. This is so stupid, I know. Just give me ten minutes. I'll run up and change so I can bring your stuff back, all right? Just ten minutes!"

Nines dismissed her with a wave. The crude rings glistened on his hand. She was not aware of what other reasons he had, provoked but worth it, to vanish before Ms. Woeburne squealed up this street. "Kid, I got the whole goddamn city screaming in my ear right now. I'm going to book it. Get it back to me some other time."

"How will I…?" Lily began to ask, but the corners of his mouth turned south, and she shut up. One of her hands quietly grabbed the door handle. "OK. Yeah, all right. I understand. Sorry. Thank you again. If there's anything I can ever do…" The man indicated nothing – did not bother to direct his eyes her way – so she hovered there, just long enough for that weak composure to regroup, before moving to step out.

He caught her by the arm.

"If you ever need help, you come to _The Last Round_ downtown. Imagine you're going to hear about me real soon, and you aren't going to like it, but you remember what I said. _The Last Round_. That's free people's territory. Nobody there'll stick you in a fire for being what you are."

Then a faded business card was somehow in Lily's hand and she half-stepped/half-tripped back onto the sidewalk, inexplicably shaken by the severe voice and undemanding stare.

She watched the truck drive off, blinking uselessly, unsure if she'd pulled her wrist away or if he let it go. Thinning cardstock crumpled in her palm. The neonate carefully flattened it straight, reading what little there was across that dull green face. Its text looked a bit discolored, sort of runny, as though the card had gone through someone's washing machine a time or two. There was no real logo - just a cramped address and telephone number to somewhere she didn't want to call.

Lily mulled over it for a moment, tucked the business card into her pocket, and headed home to call Ms. Woeburne.


	22. Cry Wolf

**Cry Wolf**

Serena was not pleased.

Ms. Woeburne was hellfire and brimstone that night. She had been furious when the call came from Lily Harris, both first and second; she had been furious when Joelle brushed off her demand to see Mr. LaCroix ASAP; she had been beyond furious at the notion of what happened under her nose that night in a derelict little pisshole of LA. Nails cut moon-shaped welts into palm heels; boot heels firecrackered against marble. Every detail incensed her_. _"Rescued" been the term Lily used, sitting ignorant and compliant in the back of that deathtrap truck. It brought her cold-blooded employer five seconds and a mumbled disagreement from explosion. _Rescued_.

There was no one word to fully communicate the Ventrue's current mood, as can be expected of most moods Ventrue have. But "rage" came close.

_'Oh, indeed,' _Ms. Woeburne snorted to herself; she might have actually breathed out smoke were it not for the perpetual coolness of Kindred bodies. _'Please, cut me a few inches of slack. I should fire her. I ought to do it for my own sanity. And I might if it didn't feel like losing. Rescued! Damned excellent. If they think he'll get away with this, they've got…'_ There was only one way to finish the trite, classic threat she had made: another thing coming. Yes. Another Thing Coming was the goal tonight. _'I don't have to tolerate this from him or them, and I certainly won't abide it from her. Puffed-up, gutter-blooded Brujah. You had better believe I'm going to correct this. I'm going to turn this upside-down right on that filthy Anarch den.' _

The hate kinetics were enough to light up Venture Tower's decadent curtains. Perspective was relative against longstanding anger. To be sure, the Foreman was relieved Lily had avoided an extermination – of course she was! – but all was not as it seemed, no, not even a bit. Neonates might be hoodwinked and charmed by Brujah gallantry, but everyone else would see this for what it was: pandering, intimidation and interference. Apparently a week's worth of torture was not sufficient. Now the Prince's Childe must endure these immature little mind games, as well.

No, Serena was not pleased at all.

She towed Lily by one wrist, unaware, and probably uncaring, that their irate pace was tripping up the fledgling in her Mary-Janes.

"I still don't see why we're doing all this, Ms. Woeburne. Nothing even happened," Lily protested, color only from the bruises on her cheeks. She regarded the large imperial double-doors looming down Venture's penthouse hallway with a growing, intuitive dread. "I'm fine. I promise I am. I'm fine and it's done with, and I already told you everything. And I really can't stand even thinking about it. So can't this whole thing just be over?"

"Over! It is certainly not over. We've gone through this already; I don't see why expediency is so difficult for you to understand." Ms. Woeburne was yelling without realizing it. She pivoted, saw Lily recoil, and forced her hackles down into something remotely civil. "I'm sorry. Really, I am. This isn't your fault. While I can't make promises, I'll try my best to keep you well enough out of this mess once we're through here. But what happened _to_ you is bigger than you – you must understand. If we say nothing because it's uncomfortable to talk about, there's no way of knowing you're out of the danger that found you yesterday. Do you see why it's still an issue? You could be in _danger_, Lily. Your safety could be compromised. I could be at risk. That is why we're doing this; _that_ is why we must put it all out for review, even the embarrassing things. Kindred security comes from the betters we can confide in."

"Yes, I know, but…" Serena looked so fretful, a hard-to-bear familiarity of pursed mouth and knitted brow, so Lily glanced down at Sebastian LaCroix's floor. Redwood and stone; she felt incredibly guilty for dragging her feet on Ms. Woeburne, but despite those gristly memories of broken fingers, her own pain stuck prominently out. It was difficult condemning a man who recently saved your life. At any given time, particularly for creatures like her, there was far more about Kindred affairs you didn't understand than what paltry crumbs you did. And even still, she had come to learn situations were rarely as simple as said Kindred presented them. This one seemed complex. The story crinkled with incongruity; it felt like something missing from her script. "The Sabbat has always been where the danger is for me. People like me. It just seems that's where I should be focusing - mostly focusing - if I'm trying to stay out of this. They're the ones who were trying to kill me. Not like that's real unusual, but…" It grew increasingly uneasy beneath the Ventrue's olive stare. The soft yellow cashmere of her new dress was beginning to itch like mad. It was hard resisting that prickling urge to scratch. "I know, I know: he's not a great guy. I understand. I believe you. I saw you. It's just that last night, this whole... I'm just saying maybe it was a right-place, right-time thing."

Serena sighed. She couldn't blame the thin-blood for her political naiveté – not in kind conscience – but how far off now was that human time when a good deed was just a good deed. "Everything sends a message, Lily. This is how vampiric society works. This is why my organization tries to keep people like you and E out of the thick. I know it's perplexing, but please – _please_ can you try to understand?"

The chastised redhead was ruminating her shoe straps, again. Ms. Woeburne felt a mite sorry for her, and gave Lily's shoulder a stiff, encouraging squeeze. It was not rough, yet it hurt somehow. "You won't need to worry about it very much longer. But you always have to remember who your real friends are."

"You are, but…"

"But what?" Serena asked, lips thinning. Her pearl earrings gave a hostile little shiver.

"I don't know." The neonate sighed. She readjusted her white headband, flattened out wiry orange. "I sort of feel wrong, I guess. Stirring up a bunch of trouble with your boss. You're going to do what you need to do, I know, and I don't want anything bad to happen on account of what I did. Or didn't. But it's sort of weird for me – being put in this position. I don't really know what I'm testifying about. He just seemed OK, that's all."

The statement plucked a sharp chord in Ms. Woeburne.

"OK? All this, and that's what you say? _ 'OK?' _ Oh, it's inspired. Have you even the slightest-?" The glass green of her glare looked less like glass and more like a snake venom. Ventrue fangs clenched together behind dark lipstick; muscles stiffened beneath her crisp black sports coat. Two unintentionally provocative letters, and Serena was screaming again. "Did you just blank out everything horrible I told you because a man sidled up and helped you? That's original. This victim-of-circumstance nonsense isn't so cute to me, Lily, nor is it, in any way, 'OK.' I'll put it clearly," she seethed, "so there won't be any confusion. What was done for you could hardly be called a rescue, but if you insist on calling it that, then by all means. Let me clarify. Let me paint the scene. Nines Rodriguez is not 'OK.' He is a sociopath. You were sitting shotgun to a pathological liar who would have shot you as soon as looking at you if you gave him an answer he didn't like. Is it _clicking_ yet, dear? Give you the very shirt off his back, oh, yes; but don't be surprised when the bastard calls to cash in on that so-called rescue. Don't be surprised when you're the subject of a bloody Rant. Don't be surprised if you wake up in a basement somewhere because you were too 'OK' to listen to what I am saying."

"Ms. Woeburne…"

The Foreman sucked in another loading insult. Lily had shrunken, eyes wide, a child watching an adult snap. It was a grounding expression; she took a deep, forcible, calming breath.

"Stand up straight, don't speak to the Prince, and don't make a peep unless I tell you to."

With that, Serena slid her glasses up her nose, and pushed through Sebastian's door.

Mr. LaCroix was sitting comfortably at the large enameled desk, as per usual, not one measly navy thread out of place on his suit. Los Angeles backlit blond and the dark attire. There was a pen in his hand, what appeared to be a stack of financial reports face-up before him, and a bespectacled accountant standing nearby, equipped with eager obedience and an intimidating calculator. Their bold entrance caused the poor ghoul to jump inside his pinstripes. For a moment, she thought he might actually leap behind their Prince's chair, anticipating who-knows-what, but fortunately the man managed to compose himself. It was Sebastian – soberly groomed, mildly annoyed – left staring impatiently at Ms. Woeburne. He shot her a helpless, disbelieving, bothered look, flipping out an elegant hand to indicate the ongoing appointment. Lily figured it a royal _"what gives?"_

"Mr. LaCroix," Serena reported before he could order his Childe out, staunchness and urgency. Her Sire's mildly annoyance heightened with his eyebrows until it was no longer a _"what gives?"_ but an _"are you serious?"_. Lily did not try to figure this one for anything. It was frigid in here with air conditioning and luxury; she swallowed the odd taste on a terribly dry tongue. "I'm notifying you of an Anarch situation, Sir. It's Mr. Rodriguez. He's threatening me again. You have to prosecute him."

The Prince gave a lengthy, drawn-out sigh.

"That's wonderful, Ms. Woeburne. I look forward to it. But, as I am sure your quick eye has noticed, I'm in the middle of something right now. Go wait downstairs until I call you. And apologize to Mr. Tomasek while you're at it," he added, tilting his chin towards the startled financier. Mr. Tomasek nodded at her with preemptive forgiveness, rumpled shirtsleeves, and bleary hazel eyes that hid behind circular lenses.

Serena didn't quite seem to have heard him. She stood unflinchingly, shoulders squared; she was an officer at ritual inspection, lacking only a scabbard at her left hip. "He's become a danger to everyone in contact with me. It's obvious they still think I'm your assassin; they must have it in their heads that carrying on like this will either drive me out of commission or at least out of Los Angeles. It's ridiculous, sir. Even Abrams can't continue to protect him at this rate; they can squint at me all they please, but they can't justify flagrant harassment-"

"Did Ms. Lefevre let you up here?" Sebastian asked, cocking one of those sharp gold brows. The economist at his side still looked apt to bolt. He and Lily blinked mutely at one another, third- and fourth-wheels in a minor head-butt between Sire and Childe.

Then – right on cue – Joelle burst in, looking scattered, wild gaze flashing around the Prince's office with a sort of voiceless horror. Serena thought she struck up a remarkable remembrance to that folk saying: _chicken with its head cut off._

"_Chérie_," the Toreador puffed, scolding and proclaiming her innocence in one scarlet blow. Cinnamon tendrils wafted out of order; a three-button dress in her invariable rose shifted uncomfortably. No surprise, either; Ms. Woeburne had waited innocuously in Venture's lobby only until the receptionist took a ladies' room break, perpetually nervous about her makeup. Served that flitting creampuff right for letting vanity interfere with duty, if you'd have asked the Ventrue. "Chérie, you cannot just waltz up here whenever you please! Don't you know that you must check in with me at reception? Come, come," Mlle. Lefevre ushered her, flicking both palms for deference, terrified for her job - and, perhaps, her life. "Away! Mr. LaCroix is very busy!"

"Oh, pipe down, Joelle. Go finish moussing your hair," Serena barked, jerking an arm free. The Toreador looked as though someone had slapped her right in that petite pouting mouth. "I wouldn't come up here like this if my news wasn't urgent, sir," the Foreman pressed onto her master, who – beneath that icy exterior – looked a tiny bit pleased by his Childe's abuse of poor Mr. Lefevre. The apple never falls very fall from the tree, after all. Ms. Woeburne would take whatever small edge she could get tonight. "What happened last night is an insult that I can't afford to overlook. It's a security embarrassment. I think – for the good of everyone involved, and for the sake of discretion – it must be dealt with head-on, before anything more ominous comes of it. Besides that, it's a complete outrage!"

Sebastian's forefinger began uselessly massaging his left temple. He pushed out another sigh. "I _am _sorry about this, Peter. If you wouldn't mind." On the contrary, Mr. Tomasek looked quite relieved to gather his charts and shuffle back downstairs after the slightly crisped Joelle. She, too, seemed substantiated by the distraction of a task, no matter how menial it might've been. Serena did not care how neatly she fell into their sad little group. The Ventrue scowled her sternest scowl. "Thank you for your patience. This will take twenty minutes at most."

Once the unsettled ghoul and the panicked secretary departed, doors closing quietly behind them, Mr. LaCroix turned a real glare at his willful Childe.

"I hope you have an excellent explanation for bull-rushing my office, Serena." The Prince folded his hands, elbows settling on his desk. He issued Lily a flat, unenthused glance. "Hello."

The thin-blood, swallowing some smart astonishment at meeting the vampiric lord of LA, remembered to look at her feet and curtsy.

"Thank you for hearing me out, Mr. LaCroix. I'll be brief," Ms. Woeburne promised, knowing full well that unimportant details irritated Sebastian. He was through-and-through a bullet-point type of man. "This is Lily Harris. She is my domestic employee." (The Prince's bluish mouth tightened. One sentence in; two trivial facts.) "Yesterday evening, Ms. Harris had a suspicious encounter with - as you probably inferred - Nines Rodriguez, something I, for obvious reasons, take great offense to. It goes without saying I find the whole thing far too timely to be anywhere near comfortable with it. Before I explain, I should give a bit of context," she prologued, wetting her lips. "As you may know, Ms. Harris is technically Caitiff. She was filed with us according to protocol and has respected Domain law, including but not limited to any hunting restraints that may apply. I hired her on Ms. Lefevre's recommendation, actually. So I have seen to her continued lawfulness personally."

"Ah. This must then be Mr. Toten's ill-begotten progeny. My regrets, Miss Harris," Sebastian added, causing the girl to startle. _ 'Rolf's last name…?'_ She could not wonder about his meaning or his apology; the thin-blood's wandering eyes were captured by her mottled reflection in Venture's polished floor. Lily was about five seconds from an automatic "thank you" when she recalled Serena's instructions not to speak. Instead, the fledgling gave him a demure nod and another awkward bob of her knees. She did not want to look at him for very long. The man Serena called "prince" was menacingly impeccable - in speech, movement and in the way vampirism had structured his face. It felt less than fifteen degrees in here. He was symmetrical enough to terrify.

Ms. Woeburne dipped her chin, a brisk affirmative bob up-and-down. The woman was cleaner, straighter and better-built than most furniture Lily had seen, but she looked like a sloppy knock-off reporting before her senior. "Yes. She was attacked last night by a Sabbat pack on her way to my apartment. Though we are unclear on the how or the why, who interrupts them but-"

Sebastian interrupted them, then - one unamused eye-roll, one more aggravated sigh. "I suppose Mr. Rodriguez trumpeted in the cavalry?" Whatever Serena had been expecting Mr. LaCroix to guess, it certainly wasn't that. She confirmed, unsure what to make of it. "Typical," the Prince scoffed. At her quizzical look, he elaborated, though seemed to resent having to do so: "It wouldn't be the first time a Brujah captain made a spectacle of him or herself through, let's say, extravagant bipartisanism. You know how they are; apparently, Jyhad's no fun to be had if you're not showboating your way through. It's loyalty games, Serena. This is how they operate." He coughed inside the privacy of his throat. "Now, how did _you_ become involved in this, dear girl?"

"By association, for one." She was too keen on mounting the witness stand to be deterred. "I don't want to give you the wrong impression, sir. The Caitiff's tasks are negligible; they are in no way relevant to me professionally. But Ms. Harris might, to some, be mistaken for my... assistant, of sorts. And what I would like to figure out is how we are to know Mr. Rodriguez didn't ring the dinner-bell on her in the first place. He could have spread that rumor to a local pack. It would set a pretty political grandstand, you have to-"

"Possible, Ms. Woeburne. But-" He gave the desk one firm, punitive tap. "It is not provable, and hardly matters, either way. What's done for show is already done. She is not an rostered asset. No one with judicial clout will care."

"You'll also be interested to know Mr. Rodriguez had Ms. Harris call me whilst she was still in his thrall." ('Ms. Harris,' also known as 'the Caitiff,' cringed at the word choice but wasn't about to say anything. She had only just learned who Sebastian LaCroix was to the Kindred world, and shortly thereafter understood his relationship to her employer. It was all sort of a mind-fuck, to put it lightly.) Ms. Woeburne, vying irritably for a home-run, continued: "She rang me on his cell phone, sir. If that isn't a brazen attempt to intimidate me, I don't know what is."

Serena did not seem very encouraged by the stare their Prince affixed her with. He blinked – disconcertingly slow – propped his chin upon both folded hands, and watched the bristling Foreman like a bored cat. Lily was wise not to look at him. Ms. Woeburne unfortunately did not have the luxury of ignoring Mr. LaCroix's long gazes, which could inspire a wide variety of sensations within a miniscule block of time: well-heeded, distinctly Malkavian, absolutely idiotic, or as though you had been publicly stripped down to your grandma's flimsy underwear. His deflating progeny currently checked in at somewhere between the third and forth points on this spectrum.

"Excuse me," he said - finally, awfully, enough to make her start to squirm. "I misunderstood. Now I see the light: with evidence that solid, why even bother with quorum? I'll phone Hollywood this instant," Sebastian announced, flicking up the desktop telephone and tipping his fingerpads down. Serena winced. _'Oh, yes. Definitely number four.' _The Prince was snorting disbelief with receiver humming in one hand. "First, though, illuminate your Sire. Exactly what would you like me to say? Better yet! Tell, in your honest opinion, how this sounds: _'My Anarch peers: by Camarilla authority, I hereby sentence your Baron to indefinite arrest for the killing of a Sabbat pack, and for causing the _discomfort_ of my Childe.'_ It has an air of what you might call _war_ to it. And how do you think this would go over in court, Ms. Woeburne?" When she did not answer, confidence shriveling to the size of a chickpea, it might have been signal enough. Mr. LaCroix's skepticism hardened into a disappointed frown. "You have a decent political mind, Serena. It would be much appreciated if you'd stop flipping it off every time someone mentions your misfortune last month. I understand that you detest the trigger-happy charlatan and his Toreador masters for what they did to you, but for your own sanity as well as mine, consider the ramifications for every little allegation we make. Abrams will no doubt think I am withdrawing our _very _tentative truce and fire up the chants of 'murder in Long Beach' again. I cannot govern by theorizing on happenstance. What is more important to you, dear girl: getting in your cheap last word, or solidarity in my government?"

There was only one response that guaranteed Ms. Woeburne would walk out with head firmly attached. He did not trouble waiting for it.

"Serena, you know I value your perspective, but you're being unreasonable. We all loathe Rabble; most of us would see the lion's share of them dead. Business comes before personal vendettas, however. I'm not going to handle your feelings with baby gloves. Soldier your chin and deal with it." Having presented what she'd perceived as threats against her wellbeing and been met with cold control, Serena bristled. Sebastian discerned this. He softened his hostility and beckoned the Ventrue forward. "Come here," Prince LaCroix said, pardoning whatever stupidity she's shown with a tired turn of his palm.

When Ms. Woeburne stepped up to the desk, he reached out and took one of her hands. The pressure centered her. It was an attention-getting, if not consoling, grip. "You did an excellent job acquiring those artifacts for me. Ms. Pisha sent along very interesting information that I am getting copied for you as we speak. Now, as your Sire, I advise you: forget this pissing-contest you have with the Anarch Party and focus on more productive tasks. I'll have some new intrigue waiting by the time you open your front door – something more worthy of your attentions and effort. Yes?"

She sighed because it was all she had left to do - anger quashed by dismissal, then drenched with compromise. "Yes, Mr. LaCroix."

"That is the answer I like to hear." Cold fingertips patted her knuckles. Ms. Woeburne despised being made to feel like someone's doe-eyed daughter, fiercely proud of her blood-right, but reasoned she could've done far worse than patronization and petted hands tonight. "Now, then. Much as I'd rather catch up with you, Mr. Tomasek is waiting downstairs to irritate me with more penny-pinching. Send him back up on your way out, would you?" He shooed her off, directed an uninterested nod Lily's way, and returned to his profits forecast. "Good evening."

Serena, having reached her absurdity limit for one night, said nothing more. She frowned, sternly took the thin-blood's sleeve, and tugged her straight down until they were through those broad-shoulder lobby doors and clacking through the parking garage.

"That went swell," the vampire cursed, shifting her new car with undue force. Keys jangled in the R8's ignition; white paint sat stark around them. The scent of fresh leather made Lily's stomach turn in the passenger seat. Serena – always sophisticate, never a diva – looked _off_ transitioning between so much money. Then again, who could've guessed exactly where a chilly benefactor got her comfortable flow of cash? "Bloody great case I made for myself. It's entirely my own fault, too. _Evidence_. Of course I would need a stack of it to be heard up there. Can't expect Sebastian to take us seriously just on faith, now, can we?" she was venting, cranking the upholstered wheel. They backed out and bounced roughly over the exit floor speed bumps. Treads squeaked at the first, second, third city curbs. "Not for a second. Certainly not! 'Pissing-contest,' is it? Hah! I tell you, I'd demand a raise if it meant anything by this point. 'Pissing-contest' my foot."

Street lights sped by overhead, cool glows on umber hair. The girl watched her employer swear for a few more minutes before daring to speak. "Um, Ms. Woeburne. I know this isn't the best time. Not a great time, anyway. But can I ask you some questions?"

"Naturally," the Ventrue said, squealing unflinchingly through an five-point intersection. Someone honked and their car changed lanes more times than seemed necessary. In the interest of not screaming, Lily decided it was probably best to keep on staring at her shoes.

"You told me the Prince is your Sire. Does that make you... I don't know. Royalty?" the neonate tried, peeling seatbelt away from her collarbone. Serena choked on a cynical, self-depreciating laugh. Canines glistened beneath artificial lamps and moonlight. Her eye teeth were short and phenomenally sharp.

"No," Ms. Woeburne countered, firm and flat and a little bit humored by the fancy of that notion. "I wouldn't complain, and I know some who might agree with you - but no. The Camarilla isn't a monarchy, Lily. Don't be fooled by the titles; they're literary. Traditional, I should say. But whatever you think of our lingo, Princehood isn't inherited. No position really is," she clarified. "It's more modern than that. We're not a Swiss democracy, of course, but communal opinion does play a role. More like a traditional parliament. Though it certainly helps to have high-profile predecessors."

"Like Mr. LaCroix?"

The operative hesitated. "…like Mr. LaCroix," she admitted, decelerating after her sports car passed a dawdling SUV.

Lily's brain was whirling ahead of her, a bit carbonadoed by the revelation that her reclusive boss had, all this time, been descended from Napoleonic heritage and millionaires. She had looked like a nameless corporate form-signer, maybe a legal aide. Her nights were apparently full of political warfare and knightly service to a name-only prince who sat like a king. "So you work for him? Your Sire's your boss."

"I do. He is."

"Wow, you must've really done something to impress him. What kinds of jobs does he ask you to do? Is that why you came to LA? Jesus, you must travel like a queen. Like that suite – and all these nice clothes, right? Did he buy you this car?"

Serena shut her up with an irked, grating _'ahem-hmm,'_ disliking the logical strain of conclusions.

"Oh, sorry! God, no. I wasn't trying to suggest..." But Lily clapped her mouth shut, rotating the notion of unlimited income, and of accounting to the creature who made you. There was no need to actually say the insinuation. There were plenty of better questions to ask. "OK, what about your… company? Organization, I mean. I'm trying to figure out the bigger picture here. The Camarilla is basically your justice system, right?" The agent gave an ambivalent nod; it wasn't much, a sharp _yes_ with a sharp chin, but a reaction encouraged her assistant to proceed. She'd thought about it earlier, while they waited for an audience – or, more accurately, waited for Joelle Lefevre to leave her post. "I guess it's good they're here. Otherwise who would keep the more powerful vampires from just killing each other all over the place?"

"That's the idea," Serena agreed, speeding unconsciously through a stop sign. Lily's curiosity went a small distance towards distracting her wrath. "I don't know if I'd put it that bluntly, per se; Camarilla functions are very complex and multi-faceted. Certain branches enforce law, some mediate, others manage and others still regulate. But we do our best to prevent the local barbarian kings from blowing themselves into smithereens."

"And Nines Rodriguez is one of the barbarian kings?"

"Now you're catching on. Actually – _no_," the woman decided, nose wrinkling. "That is giving him _way_ too much credit. Rodriguez is more like a gang lord these days. He doesn't have any real claims left."

"Why do you hate him?" It fell out of Lily's mouth. Serena couldn't quite connect a glare before she amended the ungainly question. "I mean, I know why _you_ hate him, obviously. But you've got a personal reason," Harris quickly granted. It satisfied Ms. Woeburne, and they drove on towards her maid's apartment, frigid digits loosening their steering wheel death-grip. "Why does the whole Camarilla hate him, though? Is it politics? The Prince was saying…"

Serena gave this query some deliberation. It was a difficult thing to summarize without delving into vampiric anarchism, a touchy subject demanding more time than good Foremen would freely afford, so she simply responded: "Mr. Rodriguez promotes a dangerous set of principles that are impractical for Kindred society. As they are anti-Camarilla by design, you can imagine this does not sit well with a body of order. He resents us for disarming him. Of course, resent is a reasonable reaction to being ousted from your throne - you don't make friends by toppling warlords, not right away, even when you do so with bureaucrats instead of bombs. But as reasonable as it might be, he's causing a very unreasonable amount of trouble. And no questioning why. Those who flock after him are a bunch of thugs," Ms. Woeburne spat. She could remember two grease-monkey henchmen that held her arms while Nines laid rings into the Ventrue's face. "They don't all mean to be as stupid as they are. Most are just desperate and like to hear someone tell them they matter more than they do. I understand Rodriguez is very good at that. But it doesn't much matter what their State line is, because this isn't an issue of philosophy or -isms. This is about species survival. We _need_ cohesion, secrecy and a definitive chain-of-command to survive… we do _not_ need self-serving Idealism. We cannot afford it."

Ms. Harris shifted in her seat.

"At any rate," Serena closed, adjusting her glasses with two quick, uncompromising fingers. "The organization has mostly neutralized him. He'll fight in the little ground he's got, but neither he nor his party will be a problem much longer."

Lily did not catch the capitals - _Idealism_, _State_. She had in her reference bank a truck full of guns and gasoline, a bad business card and a blue jacket slung over her dining room chair.

"Oh," the thin-blood said. She spent the next half-hour sunk halfway down in her leather seat, studying stubby nails, unready to jackhammer a nail through Nines Rodriguez. But Serena was certainly right about one thing: undead courts were not a cakewalk. Dangling outside the Kindred loop suddenly seemed like a blessing in disguise. You could see the parallels, she realized with a start, between this moment and last night: somber stare, big teeth, threatening implications and the human gestures that broke through. Images swirled together in a haze of tension release. They had both talked while driving and seemed distracted more than their passenger was worth. Sitting next to a barbarian king; sitting next to an emperor's squire who wore dismal makeup and didn't fold her own laundry. _'Two insane ways to be saved.' _ It made Lily slump into a bizarre, exhausted grin.

"Is something funny?" Serena commanded, a hussar in an Audi. She was only missing a rifle and a crown.

The girl shook out her daydreams while shaking her head. "No. I'm sorry. It's just... it's been weird. You think you've got everything mostly down, and then-" Both hands hopelessly hit her lap. "This."

Ms. Woeburne sighed. "I am only trying to do what's best for you, Lily," she reminded, sounding ragged. There was a genuine note of concern buried beneath that wire tangle of stress. The stick rattled its holster for before locking into place. They had stopped. They were parked. "You know that, don't you?"

"I know," she said, shook Serena's hand, then stepped out to face the cramped stairs of her studio. It was windier now than it had been. Bushes hissed; cashmere flapped airily at the thin-blood's calves. "Take it easy, all right? I'll see you soon."

"Wednesday," the Ventrue corrected.

"Yeah. Wednesday."

Ms. Woeburne was still her favorite vampire, Lily decided, but this whole Camarilla thing would've made Orwell shit bricks.


	23. Ominous Portent

**Ominous Portent**

The vampire flung her keys onto the kitchen bar, kicked off both boots, and collapsed onto her leather couch like a dead person.

She enjoyed approximately six minutes of silence before the wedding march of responsibilities came a-knocking at her door.

The first was Serena's idling computer. A mail chime, pleasant but persistent, called attention to a growing inbox. There was so much compassionless joy in that buzzer that Ms. Woeburne repressed serious compulsions to hurl something into her widescreen. _'Temporary gratification,'_ she reminded herself, staring at a sleek black heel longingly. And it was not as if breaking one measly little PC would halt this storm – not even close. Messages were already dinging on her answering machine, each beep dishing a prod to its owner's lower back. Futile. She tried to dull these annoyances by hammering fist-to-forehead, palm heel thumping tension flat, lime eyes crinkled shut. Equally futile. When no amount of pressure helped, Prince LaCroix's Childe sharply pinched the flap of skin above her nose between two fingernails, squeezing until its sting surpassed any traces of headache still banging around up there.

Then – just when relaxation began to settle in – Serena's cellular vibrated itself off the coffee table. She stuffed a throw-pillow over her face.

Lily left two messages (regarding next week's schedule), Joelle was calling her mobile (pouting about tonight's "fiasco" as she relayed a lengthy series of deadlines), and the flagged 'urgent' e-mails were from Sebastian. His Childe nursed a bruised ego while waiting for Empire Hotel's network to wake up.

Ms. Woeburne clicked through the subject lines, giving each a precursory once-over before tackling their contents in full. Her Sire's next instruction set included three uncomfortably vague PDFs on modern necromancy, a Tremere scholar's comprehensive _History of Clan Giovanni_, and _A Brief Overview of Colonial Sub-Saharan Iconolatry _(labeled: "for your edification"). Ah, yes: because Serena's number-one priority these days was the expansion of her trivia database. _'When does he imagine I will have time for all this idle reading?'_ she wondered with a snort. The font was irritatingly small and scanned sideways. Fortunately, one benefit of being a soulless, emotionally-retarded bloodsucking monster was no guilt over how many innocent trees went shredding through her printer.

So, kicking stockinged feet onto the desk and crossing her ankles, Serena watched paper pile up with a blasé lip curl for a blasé sigh. She would've killed to enjoy a nice, steaming mug of pitch-black espresso. Shame it would've sent her dashing to the bathroom with palms clasped over her mouth. Oh, well._  
_

Waiting for the reports to finish, she twisted idly in her chair, clicked a retractable pen into dysfunction, and pondered ordering a very expensive gourmet meal for fifty via delivery to Venture Tower – just to annoy Ms. Lefevre. Serena snickered at the thought before shoving it out of her mind, deciding she was above cattiness and far above adolescent pranks. Besides, there'd been sufficient damage done tonight to tide everyone over, dragging some Sireless thin-blood into the Prince's own penthouse. It was fortunate for them both that her Sire had been tired this evening – tired enough to pass by the anger rising from such a cheeky act. Especially fortunate for Ms. Woeburne, he'd also been too busy for throwing a semi-public temper-tantrum at his Childe. She nevertheless felt sore about being dismissed.

After what Serena had begun referring to – even in her own mind – as the "incident last month," Mr. LaCroix replaced Empire Hotel's evening doormen with four company bodyguards. They spent monotonous work hours shooting their boss's progeny narrow, irritated glares every time she clacked through the entrance lobby. Ms. Woeburne normally would've suffered some self-consciousness at having such a fuss made – but, in the interest of actually being the spoilt Camarilla princess everyone thought she was once in her life – instead shot them innocuous, falsely sweet little smiles across orange lobbies lined with lace. A young Ventrue up-and-comer didn't often have the luxury of being a superior bitch… might as well take advantage of this pampering while it lasted, which doubtlessly wouldn't be long. Serena was not yet certain if Sebastian's plans included keeping her in Los Angeles permanently. She simply assumed there'd be a plane ticket bound for London laying on her desk one of these nights.

Not that Ms. Woeburne much missed the estate... or anyone else Mr. LaCroix stockpiled there. Roderick's wellbeing rarely crossed her mind; after all, if something explodes back in Hendon, who do you imagine will be the first to hear of it? And anyway, she preferred being insanely busy to insanely bored. Overabundance of free time only led to wandering, irritating thoughts about her past life; Serena could not imagine a greater waste of undeath than wondering about kine. _'Mother's surely dead and pushing up daisies, besides. Well. Good riddance.'_

Though it might've been amusing to roll by home one Sunday night in a crisp white $150,000-dollar car.

Serena snatched the hefty stack of hot paper, thumbed through it, and scanned for an attached series of orders. Sebastian began as he always did – with curtness, direction, and just a sprinkle of sugar:

**Dear Miss Woeburne:**

**I trust you will be happy to hear that Ms. Pisha was pleased with your delivery. As promised, she forwarded information that has given me a fascinating new lead and you a new assignment.**

**Over the past few months, I have been in contact with a politically ambitious member of the Giovanni family. I realize this might come as a surprise, given our hitherto estranged relationship. Dusty old treaties (I refer here to the Promise of 1528; please see the articles I have sent) are social antiquities, however, and bear little weight upon future allegiances. Therefore: I ask you to place aside predispositions or reservations, as I have.**

**Thanks to the data Ms. Pisha provided, it has come to my attention that Clan Giovanni is excavating a certain relic in Turkey. Because of the peculiar nature of this relic, I would very much like to acquire it for Camarilla investigation. I have spoken to my associate about this, and we've discussed a potential arrangement. This is, of course, where your diligent services come in.**

**You will meet with Ms. Mira Luciana Giovanni in three days time, on the twenty-second of this month at eleven o'clock, at my property **_**Café Cavoletti.**_** There, you will confirm whatever agreement we've reached with a signature. Upon this signature, she will present you with an envelope. Once you receive it, you may leave and report back to me.**

**Do not open the envelope.**

**As always, you were chosen for this task because I have the utmost confidence in your discretion. Thank you for your work thus far.  
**

**Best,**  
**SL**

**P.S. Did you remember to apologize to Mr. Tomasek for interrupting his appointment?**

Realizing that trying to detangle Mr. LaCroix's aims was a wasted endeavor, Serena closed the e-mail, scribbled into her datebook, shut down the computer and meandered off scald herself in an uncomfortably warm bath. Dinner and negotiations at an Italian restaurant? This was a mission from life – not stunt-heavy supernatural espionage – but Woeburne had no complaints after these treacherous few weeks. Meeting some Giovanni child certainly sounded simple and safe enough. Maybe she'd even find time to send the downtown Anarchs a nice thank-you note.

_'Like a box of dynamite,' _she mused, lathered the hair-spray out, and sank under three feet of stagnant water.


	24. Loyalty Games

**Loyalty Games**

Lily didn't know what the hell she was doing here.

The thin-blood was currently frowning at her shoes, a habit as familiar as it was useless, considering with some embarrassment the sad state of each plastic toe. She'd probably need to invest in a new pair soon. These were getting precarious – dyed threads poked through canvass stitching; eyelets threatened to pop out; grimy laces sagged. She'd glued the heels back on her lucky sneakers twice now, and still couldn't seem to throw them out.

Lily gulped. Her hand rapped a second time on the dingy green storm door, knuckles stark against old paint. _'Maybe I should just go,' _she thought, watching taillights flicker down the street. This felt awfully like one of those mafia black-and-whites. This – the bar, in particular – looked like someplace people went to when they wanted knife fights. She did not want a knife fight. Or any kind of fight. Her ribcage still stung, and tense back muscles woke the thin-blood up sobbing twice in these past three mornings. She couldn't pop painkillers because she couldn't stomach the dosage, or the sip of water.

'_Definitely shouldn't have come,' _Lily decided, losing a sizeable dose of her courage. It was a bad idea, and she had been a little too aware of that going in, though apparently not bad enough. No one knew where the neonate was, far as she could tell. Secrecy felt dangerous, but there was no other way to come out here; Serena would've bitched for weeks at the disclosure of this invitation, and E had too much to worry about, anyway. He was frightened of Kindred – a smart response for someone proving their genetic foibles – and the young woman thought her Childe would probably say not to go. And he'd likely have been wise in doing so, something his Sire didn't want to admit at present. They'd promised each other a long time ago not to be swept up in vampire politics.

But this fledgling wasn't being swept anywhere; she had no intentions of stepping into that viper pit. She just wanted to give Nines Rodriguez a handshake for saving her life, or something, and return his stupid jacket. It would take maybe fifteen minutes to pop in and offer a little modest gratitude. Fifteen minutes; what was the harm? No faction bothered with thin-bloods outside the ones actively wanting them destroyed. No politicians were watching her or waiting for blackmail material. Lily knew arguing against Ms. Woeburne, particularly before her Prince, would've been a terrible decision - but she also knew Rodriguez hadn't a damn clue who "Miss Harris" (an awkward thing to be called) was until she'd told him. And regardless of whatever else was said, both truths and exaggerations: if he was _really_ interested in using her as leverage, surely the Brujah would've acted three evenings ago, when she'd been sitting dumbly in his passenger seat.

At the end of the day, Serena was a reliable boss and a merciful Kindred. She did not cringe at her housekeeper's lineage nor drop constant reminders about how their authoritarian law ruled upon most orphans. But the Ventrue thought everything was always about _her_. Lily had almost died, damn it, and Ms. Woeburne cried wolf to the Prince with claims that Nines Rodriguez made a personal threat against his Childe. Some people were raised like that, the girl realized. And she honestly wanted to safeguard her employer's confidence – didn't desire to make things needlessly difficult – but did that necessitate being a stooge? Maybe her kind couldn't play Jyhad; so what? Corporate bargaining didn't interest. Neither did posturing, though. There was no underlying message in loitering outside _The Last Round _tonight, blue shirt rolled under one arm and toes forked inwards – half wanting to run, half wanting to walk forward. This was just something Lily had to do on her own.

Harris was about to give up and flag down a cab when the heavy door cracked open, and a woman glared out.

The vampire standing on the stoop was unexpectedly short. She had a diesel-and-cinnamon persona – all barks, belligerent poses and eye-rolls. Wiry red hair jostled around an ashen, ovular face; small features were drawn into her mouth by thick, fire-engine lipstick and a perpetual sneer. Lily's first reaction was to reach out and offer a friendly hand, but there was frightening gruffness standing on the other end of that threshold. She swallowed hard. She tried to ignore how that green stare was searing. She thrust out her right arm.

"Hi. Uh. Yeah, hello." The thin-blood did not so much introduce herself as make clear the fact she still didn't fucking know what this craziness was. There might have been sweat welling on the back of her neck. "Sorry. About the knocking. This is _The Last Round_, right?"

The woman watched their visitor's palm dangle. After what seemed like an awfully long time, she crossed both arms and propped her compact, busty frame in the doorway. Nothing edged past those bristling shoulders but smoke and a general sense of displeasure. Harris tried unsuccessfully to peek deeper into the dim room behind her. Instead, it opened her up to closer scrutinized by an unhappy-looking bouncer. She wore an army beret. She was maybe five-foot-two.

"Wow," came the snort – finally – a boldly offensive sound. She frowned at that hand until the self-conscious fledgling retracted it. Serena had mentioned there was a smell to diluted blood. This particular one apparently wasn't very amused by it, watching the lanky creature fidget as though she'd shown up to a boxing tournament with no skill and no gloves. There was no humor or fraternity. She looked impatient, exhausted, a flammable color. That small-scaled body may as well have been three yards tall. "I've got to say. This is a first. Tell me you're collecting or something – some kind of function or drive. Because if you know the name of this place, you know we don't do charity, and we don't like jokes."

"No, I- I'm not here for money. I'm not representing anyone." The hazards of doing so were menacingly relevant after scaling Venture Tower. "I was asked. Invited. Look, maybe I shouldn't have…"

"No, really. You're fucking kidding me, right? Shit, you gotta be. What the hell could you possibly want?" The voice was throaty but petulant, forcibly toughened. _Brujah_. Those same long teeth; that same visceral scratch. Testosterone and kerosene. A large predator could've roared through that assertive young face that looked only a little older than hers. Lily blinked helplessly. _'God. This is so stupid. This is so stupid; what do I want?'_

"I don't want anything," she tried, shrinking away from dingy entrance lights. A bottle broke somewhere inside. "It'll only take a second. I just, um. I just came to talk to Mr. Rodriguez."

The Brujah female shot her down immediately, eyebrows forking towards baleful green, a darker and hotter shade than Ms. Woeburne's. Her aura was powerfully crimson. "Yeah? He ain't here right now. Piss off."

Lily proffered the jacket, an alibi to her motive, and a tentative peace treaty. "Listen, really. I'm not trying to get something out of this. I owe him. He helped me. So I only wanted to-"

It was snatched away before the sentence finished. The guard flipped that handful of cotton quickly, scrutinizing, searching for signs of counterfeit or mischief and sniffing out none. She looked surprised. Surprise didn't stop those threatening eyes from squinting up, challengingly, one more time.

"How the fuck did you get this?"

"I told you," the fledgling stammered, gulping down a frightful, mortal taste that began to rise. "I was in trouble. He helped me. My clothes were- I was in a fight; got in a fight- and I-"

"Shit. You aren't fucking with me," the woman muttered, coat hanging in her hands. A large breath slid out of Lily. There had been no brandishing of weapons or snarled threats, yet at that moment, she felt powerfully relieved not to have a pistol snout poking her belly-button. The Brujah frowned at nothing in particular. She had to have a gun. "But you're not coming in," that stern grunt cut. "I don't know who the fuck you are."

"I'm nobody. Nobody. Like I said, I just-"

"I'll take it to him. Bye."

The neonate bit her lip. There was obviously no debate, so she compromised. "Yeah, OK. I understand. But will you tell him that I brought it over? Because I don't want him to think I just blew him off. Oh," Lily remembered, barely snagging her notice before she slammed a barricade shut between them. The Anarch groaned. That confrontational stonewall was beginning to look tired. "And will you also tell him again that I'm really, truly grateful? For what he did. Since he didn't have to – what I am. Who I work for. And it was just really great thing to do. Oh, and tell him…" She caught the door as it closed again. "Tell him that I didn't mean to make any problems for him. If I did. I'm not sure how it panned out; I just didn't have much of a-"

It was enough prattling, enough excuses. The Brujah heaved out a loud, agonized sigh to cut off whatever else would've been said. Those hinges swung only a few inches wider.

"NINES," she roared into the smoggy pub. There was shuffling, glass clinks, and one chair screeching backwards overhead. The Kindred deadpanned at their first-floor rafters, waiting. Inky brown liner glistened beneath both eyes. She puffed a strip of poorly-dyed bangs from her forehead. "HEY, _NINES_!"

"WHAT?" It was an irritated shout from upstairs. Lily's heart leapt in a burst of optimism that tangled with dismay.

"YOU GOT-" Pause; falter. The screaming stopped long enough for a quick question. "Name, kid," she demanded, intolerant look sharpening. Her bearing held a world of difficulties, hat slipping forward, a weary gaze that took no bullshit and told no tales.

"Lily Harris," the thin-blood stammered.

"LILY HARRIS HERE TO SEE YOU."

"LET HER IN, THEN," Rodriguez hollered back. "EVERY FUCKING TIME, DAMSEL. JESUS."

Damsel tossed a hideous face towards the ceiling, threw the jacket at Lily, and flung open the door.

Stepping into _The Last Round _was something like jumping into a smoke pit – something like wading through a bunker buried beneath scorched trees. A nondescript haze from the place assailed: nicotine, bass in shitty speakers and itching antagonism. Political posters in varying conditions had been plastered to every darkwood corner. There was a full bulletin board of clipped newspaper articles on one; another hosted post-it to-do lists, thumbtacked maps, printed images; a series of shelves housed retired weapons. Some had names tagged beneath that fit firearms; others, stoic memorials, fit for people not around to pull the triggers anymore. It was hard to tell between them sometimes: _Grace, Casey, Utah_. Old frames with dead friends' pictures were tacked over booths with stab-wounded upholstery, scribbles on the cheap glass, a couple angry goodbyes written right on the wall. Behind the bar top, beyond boxes of bullets, hung a dartboard; upon it, someone's unflattering depiction of Sebastian LaCroix. It had been so defaced by dart tips and black marker as to be almost indecipherable, tape curling away.

There was a handgun sitting open on an end table. She did not know if it was real, loaded, or recently used.

Adding to the general malaise of the place were racks of unused liquor, mostly for ghouls or for show. Someone's bowie knife had been stuck into a rafter, and patrons, only four or five, flashed uninterested looks at Lily when she tiptoed through. The regulars confirmed Ms. Woeburne's stereotype – they looked, on average, like a ratty mix between protest march and biker gang. A scarred man with a marine's physique frowned unhappily at her from his post beside the storage closet, stare pale brown, rifle nearby. Another male – this one dotted jet with tattoos – ignored the newcomer as though he saw them all the time, glowering hard into his place at their bar. One particularly ragged Kindred greeted her with black irises and a mouthful of frightening, tar-tarnished teeth. She had never felt so out-of-order in purple tee and shorts - began to wonder if quietly slinking back outside might be a sounder plan, after all. _ 'So stupid. So, so, so fucking stupid.'_

The only contrast in the murk of this den was a worn portrait above its second-floor stairs. Cracked paper circled a round, feminine face with deep-sunken, colorless eyes; rose-yellow curled inward against her chin and cheekbones. She was glancing sidelong like a Peggy Lee cover, black scarves and low tones. Vampires lived for a long time; Anarchs must've been running amuck and igniting buildings before her generation entered their world. She wondered how old Serena really was beneath the exterior layer of late-twenties and blush. It was disorienting that brisk Ms. Woeburne might've been filing Prince LaCroix's reports decades before her mentee entered the Ventrue genepool – before Lily had been born – before Mom got knocked-up and decided No Daddy was better than daddies from corporate. No use worrying about her own immortality. Nobody seemed to know if thin-bloods were included in the Perpetual Youth Club, anyway.

She scrutinized the painting for another minute, unsettled by how that gray stare seemed to follow hers, then took a step forward and smacked into Nines Rodriguez himself.

"Kid – watch where you're walking," the Brujah chided, grabbing Lily's shoulders and maneuvering her aside like a misplaced chair. He had been heading down the stairwell when she bumped into him, eyes everywhere but ahead of her, something that was becoming a harmful trend. There was a stitch of annoyance in the man's face, black brows turned towards heather-blue. Apart from that, he looked hardly different from the first time she'd seen him: nonchalance and confidence, opposite of pretension. Unpolished rings gleaned sharply on a few fingers. Vambraces fortified his wrists. She had to check, and the pistols were still there, one clipped on either side.

It was too late to chicken out or get scared. The thin-blood stood there stupidly for a second before hoisting up his jacket, her surrender flag. That crumpled sheaf of fabric was becoming an anti-Anarch shield.

This explanation burst out of her mouth: "Hi, you probably don't remember me, but we met downtown a couple nights ago – by this nasty garage – and I was-"

"I remember. You were getting your teeth kicked in by some Sabbat assholes."

"Yeah. That's, uh. That's me," Lily answered, wincing, trying to be light when the air in here felt heavy. She should've guessed this wouldn't just be treacherous and a direct act of disobedience to Ms. Woeburne, but also a painful foray into awkwardness. A couple steps took the fledgling further away from where he'd shuffled her. Fear began tweaking up follicles. She couldn't tell if it was because of the Anarch or what had to be said to him. "I can't stay long. I just wanted to bring this back to you." He caught the shirt she handed in one fist, gave it a disinterested glance, and slung it over a nearby booth. "I cleaned it. Washed it. Had some blood. Probably mine - maybe mine; I don't know for sure. But it didn't stain," she added. Lily assumed the leather and cleaning alcohol had come from their gunfight, but realized in a nonviolent proximity that it was just sort of how Nines Rodriguez smelled. "I also thought I should drop by to, you know. Say thanks. I would've been in serious hot water if you hadn't stepped in, and-"

"Dead," Rodriguez noted. Casually.

"…dead," she agreed. There was a flatness in the way he said so that echoed, disturbed. The neonate swallowed. She looked elsewhere. "I'm grateful."

The Brujah snorted somewhere ahead of her, a shadow over uncarpeted wood, but Lily didn't see his face. "I hope you're more than grateful. You better be smarter here on, take it to heart, because nobody will scrape your ass off the pavement again. Everybody gets one free. After that, kid, you've got to figure out how to survive on your own. And I don't mean making ends meet. We've all had to fight to get where we are." A finger jerked toward her nose, got the eyes above it to look; it cut off whatever excuse might've come, made her jump. The Anarch seemed displeased, and his expression showed a dislike of the timidity she thought showed deference. "You might think it doesn't apply to you, Slim, but try telling that to the next shovelhead who puts a sawed-off in your mouth. Begging hasn't got too many by. And I hope you're listening to me, because I don't repeat myself. "

The thin-blood was shamefaced. She had expected a lukewarm reception – something like "oh, sure, no trouble" and maybe a pat on the back before being turned loose. She got a warning, delivered in hard words and a demand for attention. It made her grimace, shoulders slumping, caltrops tinging inside as she tried to recover. "I am listening," Lily promised, postured dropped, a defensive maneuver. Her placating hands hoisted up and her line of sight peeked after them. "I am, I swear. I hear you. I don't think it doesn't apply to me. I'm just – I'm _new_, all right? It's not that easy. It's confusing, and…"

The retreat had little effect. Rodriguez was staring evenly again – no sign of approval or disapproval – just observation, a metal off-shade in a darker stairwell. He waited a minute to see if she'd say anything. Another lecture was just what Harris needed after being dragged into Prince LaCroix's penthouse as a political bullet-point; it tightened something between the blades of her shoulders, balled a fist in her gut. "You're right. Look, I know that. I messed up," she admitted, losing the battle to preserve her dignity beneath ten seconds of that unreadable gaze. Ms. Woeburne might've been too puffed-up and Ventrue to accept the possibility she could screw things all to hell, but Sireless runts didn't have those reservations. "They almost wasted me," Lily acknowledged, not for the first time. "Scared the crap out of me, too. But, I mean – that's the way it is. It's not like I want to stick my head in the sand and be somebody's punching bag, you know? I'm just trying to keep my nose out of all this… all this vampire bullshit," she finished, haggard, spitting it out.

Nines grinned.

"You want a drink, kid?"

"No. No, thanks. I'm good." Lily waved off a gesture to the stickered freezer huddled behind their downstairs bar, shaking her head. His sudden, low-key change in expression was unsettling. She checked the cheap watch upon one wrist. It read a quarter past two. Now or never. _Now or-_ "The thing is, Mr. Rodriguez, there's more I wanted to-"

"You, too, huh?"

"Sorry?"

He chuffed a little humor. It looked a sort of cross and sort of sincere. "Only time somebody 'Mr. Rodriguez'-es me is when I'm about to get shot at."

"Force of habit. Nines," she corrected, not catching the tease, not particularly wanting to relate it to either Ms. Woeburne or Sebastian LaCroix. The Brujah folded his arms and leant back against that bit of wall right before the stairway. It was dark up there; she felt threatened by whose blood, watered as it was, was running through her veins. She felt threatened by the shadow of wandering too deep into somebody else's den. It was all one bad feeling in the center of her, up the hairs of her arms. "I did want to come by to thank you for what you did. And I feel like I owe you something for it. That's why I didn't talk myself out of this, probably, because I can talk myself out of pretty much anything. Maybe I inherited that; I don't know. Look: point is, thanking you is only part of why I'm here." The confession seemed to dehydrate her, throat suggesting it should close. Suddenly Lily really could have used that drink. She couldn't continue right away. She breathed out with shut eyes.

So she could not see the vague amusement she heard. He ducked to peer at her with one brow cocked. The humor in that egging look made Lily nauseated. Guilt or dread or the chant of _stupid_, of breaking unwritten law. His voice was quiet with a pause and a little mockery. "…What's the other part?"

"Listen. You helped me, so I felt like I had to tell you. Ms. Woeburne is pissed off. _Very_ pissed off. She thinks you were sending her some kind of message. I didn't want to make a huge issue, but she said it needed to be known about, and. Well. She went to the Prince. She had me go there with her and tell them everything. I am so sorry. God, am I sorry." The woman's hands scrubbed roughly down her temples, cheeks, jaw; pulling skin, dragging shame. A buzz was rattling behind Lily's breastbone and head, some sort of mimicked pulse. She didn't want his reaction. Memory warned to prepare for a fist. "I told her it was just a thing – just some stupid thing that happened, but…"

Rodriguez stopped her, because he didn't yell. Lily glanced up to investigate why. The Brujah looked impressed by the general unimpressiveness of this news; nothing emerged – save perhaps tedium – from that mild set of his face. He seemed bored. "Came all the way out here to tell me that?"

"I thought you should know." Her words were curt and plain. "I can't repay a rescue, but I can pay you a favor."

There was one punctuated chuckle low in the vampire's throat. "Kid, don't take this wrong – but there was no way in hell your friend from the tower would let an opportunity like that slide," he told her, franker than the rough good nature on his face. There had been more alarmed responses to burnt casseroles and bumblebees. The Brujah's explanation was candid, maybe a bit cocky. "I appreciate you trying to pay me a favor. I appreciate that you found gratitude important enough to try anything. Took an effort, and more than that, it took guts. But save yourself the trip next time you get a burnin' urge to tell me the Ventrue don't like what I do."

"It's more than that," she went on, not eager about elaborating, but invested enough to finish now. That clammy coldness in both hands was spreading into dampness and striving for normalcy. She rubbed them on her shorts. "Ms. Woeburne was talking about charging you with something. In some court or congress I guess. I'm not positive what; it didn't go too well. But what they discussed seemed serious."

"That's just blueblood conversation, Lily Harris. Don't get dazzled by courts and charges that seem serious. This isn't going over in any kind of way it hasn't already; ain't about you, her, and it sure as hell is not about the other night. They've had it out for me a long time before she or you stepped into the picture." The comment was a bit of a scoff, a dubious angle, a gag she didn't get at the thin-blood's expense. These cheap lights made orange hair murky, freckles disappear. Her name sounded very untough in a place like this by a man like that. "And I'm sure _Ms. Woeburne_ can dredge up better reasons to knock my door down than ones got to do with you."

There was a horror unaccounted for, an unspoken trepidation. It would've been so much simpler to be here if everything didn't shriek _traitor_ for the frozen reflection of Serena with a bloody snap in her well-built nose.

Lily didn't know what she was saying – something risky; something stupid – but couldn't retain it, and chancy murmurs were better than carpals swollen up to the wrists. "She has a lot of reasons. You did something to her," the fledgling reminded. "Hurt her. I'm not getting involved in it. I've got commitments that aren't going to change. But she wants you gone, and from what I know - it's not a lot, but it's what I know - Ms. Woeburne is the kind of person who gets what she wants done. You made an enemy when you went after her. That's all I can say."

"That what I did?" Nines asked, and Harris met his eye again, not knowing how to answer. He hadn't moved. He lent the question an arrogant, cynical air. "Interesting take."

"I don't know what you did - either of you. But I know what she looked like. And I know who she is."

Rodriguez blinked at her. The Brujah's calmness was intimidating, humbling; it threw you off of the tallest soapbox. It made you second-guess your convictions and wonder at his. Lily couldn't determine how unhappy he was with the tale she'd told – never mind this endeavor to aid – and wasn't about to guess what he thought of her, in general or appearing here tonight. Nines was either waiting to see if these implications were beat or sizing her up. He parked a sole on that wall and a doubt in his company – a brief distraction, a rumple in the course of his night.

"Could tell you a story, kid. Could tell you a lot of them – but I'm not going to do that," Baron LA announced, and she could see the stature of saying so, the example intentionally set. "I'm not going to tell you what to believe. You were there. You figure out what went down on your own or it doesn't mean anything, anyway. What I will tell you is this. We don't work like the vampire bullshit you know around here." There was unhidden derision and blatant divisiveness in that statement. Rodriguez wasn't looking at her anymore – had reset his frown with the turn of his head – so she, too, glanced away to some softer point. "We aren't in the practice of speak-when-spoken to. Long as you behave, keep civil, you don't need to give excuses for your commitments or who they're made to. So if you're going to stroll out of here with something, take that. Because I don't lord over this city from a big goddamn throne, and – excluding the ones who ask for it – I don't waste time or bullets bullying kids like you."

A beat. A cabinet thump. Someone's car horn out back.

"Too much screaming," he noted.

The thin-blood flicked up sharply, jarred; this time, his smile confirmed the joke.

She winced a grin. It was almost funny to be baited. Her counter was funnier for being so true. "I… want to take your word for it. But they say you're a pathological liar."

"You know what they say about lies, kid."

Lily did not – but she pretended she did.

There was a clock stuck in disrepair above the bartop. Two-thirty gone. _Two-forty-five_. "I better go," Harris decided, needing to leave, wanting to more. That suffocation was back; that whisper of no safety, of heads-up, of _stay shallow, small fish_. "I'm already supposed to be home."

The Anarch's smile twitched into a smirk, twisting the faded scar there, that same eyebrow rising. "Woeburne's curtains must need dusting."

"No," Lily snapped back, harsher than she meant, feeling defensive of Serena. Her arm muscles clenched. The wrongness was intensifying again, chipping notches, tinting things adversarial and cramped. He might've been implying something but she didn't care enough to worry about it; what a weird position to be in, an echo of that stiff _ahem_ Ms. Woeburne gave, a snub by association, a disturbing parallel. There were too many damn parallels to these people. That feeling of being misplaced returned worse than it had been before. "But it's later than I like to be wandering around, especially on this side of town. I shouldn't have come at all. It was dumb. Really amazingly dumb. But I did what I set out to do; so now, I'd rather get back before somebody misses me, and it gets worse than just dumb."

Rodriguez lifted both palms as if to hold her at bay. His laugh and gesture were a disarming combination. "Whatever you say, half-pint. Wouldn't want to worry the boss. You're probably already in a heap of trouble for embarrassing her the other day. She finds you here talking to me, you may just wish I let those Sabbat smoke you."

Lily sighed, almost thinking it'd be easier to give up and stay. She didn't know much about the LA sects – she knew next to nothing about Nines Rodriguez – save for the fact he did a fantastic job of making her feel like an ungrateful little mongrel without saying much of anything at all.

"It's not like that," she mumbled, wringing her hands. "I'm not in hot water with her or anything. But I still can't be late. I've got people waiting on me. I've got a-"

Nines looked patiently at her, a blink the color of galvanized steel.

"A roommate," Lily finished lamely. Her tongue went dry. _'Oh, fuck. Great. Sorry, E. Now I'm going to have to feel shitty about this, too.'_

"I get it. No hard feelings, Slim. You get brave enough – got time to kill – stop by some night. Maybe I will teach you a story, if I'm around. Don't worry about them," he said, glancing past her, and she was again aware of the melancholic bar-flies sharing this room, few of whom seemed to be paying attention even in the slackest sense. The black-beard who'd inexplicably laughed at her earlier tossed up an _OK_ in passing recognition. Lily forced an uncomfortable wave back. "They're harmless. Mostly. I'll tell Damsel to let you in without a goddamn inquisition."

"Because we're really fucking friendly once you get to know us." It was an obstinate growl from beyond the Brujah's left shoulder that suggested neither friendliness or ever getting to know her. The redhead Lily met earlier stood higher up on those stairs, small body somehow blocking everything behind it. She'd welded on a stern scowl over the Baron's back, bright heels perched, sulking much as someone akimbo could. There was a bone to pick and a boyish, urging thump to her leader's ribs. "Hate to rain on this fun fucking parade, but you don't listen, and we have important shit that needs to get done. You're making her late back to Nanny Cam, Nines. And I've got like seven more things on the agenda to go over with you before the goddamn sun comes up-"

Welcome faded from Rodriguez's eyes. His voice hardened from amiable to iron. Two seconds; sharp tin. "Excuse me. Was I talking to you?"

The menace was keen. Damsel retreated – protest not worth a fight – and banged back upstairs, footstep peevishly on creaking wood.

"Stay out of her hair, though," Nines advised. They watched the Den Mother stomp five last steps up and out of view. "She's touchy."

"Better than homicidal," Lily figured, fitting nicely into positivity, bouyed the assurance she'd be walking open asphalt and on her way home soon. Ease to choose touchy Anarchs over Sabbat razors pricking your gums. _The Last Round_'s quarrelsome matriarch could've gutted some skinny whelp just about as quickly as they'd been about to, but there was extra texture in the bite of her snarls; she could've been a fascist-killer or a Jack Russell, made bigger by its bad temper, depending on who you were. "It's OK. There's nothing wrong with being cautious. Besides, I don't know when I'd be able to come back."

"Que será será, kid. I'm not going to hold you to it." He thought about that for a minute, though, head tilting back, fishing one cigarette out of a jean pocket to stick in his mouth. It preceded a final snort. "Tell you what," the Baron said. "You just focus on not getting pasted, not winding up dead. Do that right, and we'll see what happens."

"Sounds good," Lily thought, hanging onto her shirt hem, feeling like she ought to say something more decisive.

Nines jerked his chin towards the exit, a motion meant to remotely guide her through. "Anyway, Red ain't wrong. It's late, and you got places to be," he noted; there was finality to the statement, situated amongst unsubtle hints he had other things to do. The Brujah looked reasonably done with her, but Lily couldn't quite square a goodbye. Something halfway from stupid to certain felt unfinished. The thin-blood watched Rodriguez fumble with a lighter, lost interest a half-hooded, pale blue.

"In case I don't see you again," Lily Harris said, weighted the chances, and – not sure if she liked them – didn't change the grim lines of her farewell. "Thanks."

He grunted. "Get out of here, kid. Don't get shot."

So she did and she didn't.

Smiling Jack was still laughing when her feet hit concrete, after the door closed.


	25. Omerta

**Omertá**

There Serena sat – serious face, clean suit, cream-white camisole – tucked away at a corner table, counting bread loaves and tracing circles around her wine glass.

Café Cavoletti was a nice, upscale Italian kitchen; it felt homier than Ms. Woeburne would've expected of Sebastian's properties, but still checked in at diplomatic. Prince LaCroix occasionally entertained visiting dignitaries here, his Childe understood. He'd cordon off the next several buildings for business gatherings, fencing some Toreador in and others out, scenery meeting decadence that clan required. A suffocating royal purple covered the open windows - the café curtains were almost as stately a backdrop as its evening string instruments, what sounded like cello and violin tonight. Glassed green candles burned slowly at every place setting. Waitresses dressed in spotless, somber black. Alfresco – across the oak patios – grape vines tangled in thin French latticework, enticing bees. It was exactly the sort of misty, self-important venue Serena would've liked reading in before her Embrace. _'Probably Dickinson,_' she thought, sniffing critically at a small twig of cinnamon potpourri, flinging it somewhere forgotten. _'Definitely Dickinson.'_

Mira Giovanni had yet to slink her morbid way into the restaurant, yet Ms. Woeburne was almost grateful for a delay. This milieu was oddly relaxing. It was also a secure Camarilla eye in Baron Abrams's hedonist Hollywood; while Prince Los Angeles claimed he valued Café Cavoletti's tourist revenue above all else, Serena knew her Sire a little better than that. What he _really_ appreciated was hosting upper-crust parties in the thick of a so-called Free-State capital. Funnier still, Isaac's own Childe had expressed interest in acquiring this location several months ago - converting it into some smoky beatnik dive, some place where you slithered in with sunglasses and paint on your slacks. When Mr. LaCroix overheard these plans, he quickly negotiated a Foundation lease. So yes, it was a pleasant nook for politics, for rubbing elbows with rich guests. But it was also a thumbed nose at a swaggering rival… something men like her maker prized in tenuous, pre-war times.

"_Don't let the finances dazzle you," _Serena remembered Sebastian saying one night over a stack of expense reports. It was in that brief trial period, her obedience test, shortly before she'd become what she is. _"Wealth is in the power money purchases. Cold currency alone is nothing. Recognize that, and the value of capitalism, Ms. Woeburne, outstretches the banks and businesses it fills."  
_

'_Fine advice from the capitalist,'_ she'd scoffed to herself, for war profiteering and contract empires were the fastest ways businesses could fill up those banks.

It was unavoidable. And it was something Serena had learned to square with long ago, when she first began at LaCroix Foundation, sweating at figures and the crimes they implied. Price bubbles and offshore treasure troves were the tried-and-true keys to kingdoms in this age, tarnished or not; besides, Clan Ventrue's taste for custom was somewhat contrary to innovation, particularly when large sums of cash were concerned. She still shouldn't snicker at her Prince for his showmanship. The extravagance was meant to instill respect more than coddle senators – to demand a new magnate's claims, properties (and, perhaps, agents) were taken seriously. A penthouse marbled and decked with classical art; personnel centerpieces to usher guests about, the bureaucratic likes of Lefevre; Ms. Woeburne's ridiculous cars, a good four-year-degree's-worth of gas-guzzler - the devil was in the details. Fat accounts parted seas, even among Kindred; the physical evidence of money inspired confidence and admiration in potential Board investors. And so Café Cavoletti served a greater purpose in California by being exactly what it was: a momentary but luxurious reprieve from downtown's grit. This venue returned culture to a city Elders called _new blood._ In the old-money circles, LA hadn't yet shaken its reputation as America's rough-edged up-and-comer: a burial ground for an old don, a Domain that reeked of Anarch. That was a reputation Sebastian could not permit… not in the dangerous limbo of Kuei-Jin vanguards and battle drums.

Ms. Woeburne was pleasantly surprised when Mira Giovanni made her entrance, fifteen minutes late but no worse-for-wear. The Ventrue had been expecting an effete, over-sexed Mafia tart (Sebastian's phrase "predispositions and reservations" came to mind). Reality was conservative, a woman of average stature garbed in businesslike black. Thick, rich russet had been short-cut and slicked back; while the dress was plain, diamonds glittered at her neck and wrists. Lip-liner exaggerated childish features; alarming nails regained the lost age. Glossy, stygian eyes with curled lashes and aggressive pupils scanned the room before a hostess pointed her toward Serena's discreet table-for-two.

"Prince LaCroix's Childe?" she asked immediately, sliding around a waiter, postponing everything else for the most vital question. Her voice was coarse, modern and very American - did not pander to the lilting speech cinema generally stamped upon Sicilian heiresses. It was not at all what Prince LaCroix's Childe had imagined. She stood politely.

"I am. Serena Woeburne," the Foreman assured. They shook hands firmly across the untouched bread basket. Rye nestled itself prettily alongside nut-speckled wheat. "I'm glad to make your acquaintance. You must be Ms. Giovanni."

"Mira," she said only, and scooted up to join her. Ms. Woeburne noted with a twist of dislike how Mira planter her elbows firmly upon their tablecloth - _strike one_ - and winced for old-fashioned manners.

Never mind the nit-picking. It was mostly a victory, anyway - especially after dealing with a Hendon house of Joelle Lefevres, those who postured their stereotypes like blending in with humans was a _Miss-Nation _pageant. Serena manufactured a smile, glancing over her glasses. She leant upon the table's edge then, pressing fingerpad-to-fingerpad, muscle memory that copied her Sire. "Well, Mira. The Prince sends his regards, and is very grateful you are willing to convene with us. He regrets not being here in person, but this city waits for no politician, I'm afraid."

She grinned, a friendly gesture that her associate returned. It was an uneasy treaty with centuries of being mutually ignored.

"Don't I know it," the Giovanni joked.

They were no doubt adjusted to this meet-and-greet routine by now. Powerful Ventrue did not condescend to meet with fledglings face-to-face, and they both were of similar status - modern chips off an ancient Second Estate. "I'm sure you have dealings elsewhere tonight, so I shan't keep you very long," Serena informed her, polite code for wanting to leave. One mauve nail pointed at a manila envelope tucked safely under the woman's arm. "Am I right to assume that is the item of business?"

Mira nodded, patting the parcel. "You bet it is," she confirmed. The informal speech threw Ms. Woeburne another minor loop. Maybe it _was_ only Sebastian stuck in the dusty, floral poeticism of Kindredness. No room for romanticism, few anachronisms, no patience for what he called "Dracula sentimentality," but diction was another matter. "I've got the forms printed out, marked with the price we agreed upon this morning. And I've brought the extra information Prince LaCroix requested, as well. Three copies – all fresh. You wouldn't believe what I had to do to get my hands on these photographs." The Giovanni rolled her vast, dark eyes. Serena did not want to know precisely what a vampire whose bloodline matured upon incest and necrophilia considered distasteful. "Just make sure he keeps a foot in the door for me, will you?"

"Without a doubt." Ms. Woeburne scooted aside the useless bread hutch to accept Mira's documents. She glanced the provisions over only for appearances, then swept her John Hancock in swift, modest print. Sebastian had not asked his Childe to haggle. There was no gain to be had in delving through an Elder's financial bids, anyway; the obscenely wealthy Giovannis dealt only in very large bills, bribed more so by political promises than cash. Whatever numbers sealed their partnership would likely serve only to break Serena's mind.

_"Don't let the finances dazzle you." _ Sure.

As promised, Mira replaced the thin stack of paper with her envelope. The young woman's bulky black earrings clinked. "Everything's there," she swore. "Glad to do business with you. I'd top the deal with a cappuccino if we could, but since we can't… it's probably better I don't hang around. Say hello to your Prince for me."

With little more to offer, she stood, prize folded between two fingers. A brief head dip was this practical creature's only physical gesture of respect. For once in her life, Ms. Woeburne did not bother getting up.

But Mira did not seem to notice, or mind. She was a younger creature than the stiff ancilla who took her forms and photos. Quickly, Serena saw, are old women made. "I've already said this, but I might as well say it again. It's my hope our transaction proves that Clan Giovanni is eager to do its part for a stronger Los Angeles. All the arrangements have been very promising so far. I personally look forward to what the Camarilla can bring to this family's newest chapter, and what I can do for it in return."

"I'm sure Mr. LaCroix feels the same way. Goodnight." They shook farewell. Envelope resting safely in her lap, the Foreman waited a smart ten minutes after Ms. Giovanni's departure before she, too, prepared to vacate Café Cavoletti.

Ms. Woeburne, gathering her purse, paused for a moment to study this innocuous-looking package she'd wandered back into Baron Abrams's Domain to retrieve. It certainly did not appear suspicious, dressed in a plain-looking yellow pouch suitable for any office fare. The contents weren't awkwardly-shaped or poking strange angles. They did not overflow their wrappings; whatever sat inside must've been succinct, Serena mused, as it easily took her threefold this amount of paper to print those articles Sebastian sent. She thought a ridge of Polaroid graced her fingertip, but couldn't be sure without checking.

Which Ms. Woeburne was _not_ going to do.

It would've been simple enough to pop open the metal wings and take a quick glimpse inside. The parcel was not laminated shut or otherwise glued down; there was likely no way Mr. LaCroix could find out she'd peeked… not without Dominating her into confession, at least, and he was (generally) too sophisticated for such crass, Constantinian moves. There weren't many things the Prince of Los Angeles kept blotted out from his Childe, actually. Sebastian had Sired her so that he might have a trusted records room confidant – someone he could vest faith upon unswervingly, unafraid of father-eating corporate spirit or treachery. Perhaps it was not the most glamorous job. Being a Seneschal might've granted more popularity and credit; she was a clerk, not an analyzer, arguer or expert. But Serena was very proud of her comparably quiet life as Mr. LaCroix's personal assistant. When intel. was too sensitive to filter down the usual vine, it went straight to _Ms. Woeburne_. When a formal position granted other underlings too much clout to depend upon them, he relied upon _Ms. Woeburne_ to hold it all in check. She was not merely a party subordinate – she was his blood-born progeny – and Sebastian no sooner expected the woman would betray him than his tower crumble.

Which was, _again, _why Serena had no intentions of ever failing that confidence.

But it was occasionally tempting.

Distant as their relationship might've been, sometimes Ms. Woeburne fancied that she knew Prince LaCroix better than anyone. Perhaps this was not saying very much, but it meant a great deal to his sharp corporal. Sebastian's speech was carefully measured – whether chiding Serena or cajoling a peer – but a Sire need not constantly tread eggshells around a good Childe. She came and went from his private properties with little to no advance notice; she enjoyed almost unquestioned clearance to whatever files the Ventrue might've needed. It was an immense amount of trust to place in a young vampire, shared lineage or not. And he had asked only one thing in return.

"_If we were to enter this arrangement, you and I, I would require above all else your obedience,"_ Sebastian had said so many years ago to a promotion-hungry, clueless and regrettably human Serena. Never – not in her most ridiculous schoolyard dreams – could she have guessed what it was being offered. _"You will not question my orders, renege on what I ask of you, or share information without my express permission. To be frank with you, Ms. Woeburne, you will do remarkably little without seeking my approval. Understand the sacrifices these privileges demand, as I have. So, please, tell me honestly. Can you do this?"_

She supposed her answer was obvious.

So, yes. Even though it seemed foolish to horde secrets from his own Childe, who had _never_ considered deceiving him – even though it might've tweaked her just the smallest, most insignificant bit – dereliction was not an option. Dutiful agents required no explanation. If Sebastian said "do not open the envelope," Serena would not open the damn envelope.

But holding it up to a bare light bulb was a different story, entirely.

And this was precisely what obedient Ms. Woeburne did during her drive home.

The Audi R8 proved to be a lackluster reading light, but Serena – who'd in life been (pardoning the pun) blind as a bat – was assisted by many years of late nights. She popped the plastic off an overhead with her dashboard pocketknife, clicked it on, and squinted. Neat lettering peered around several indecipherable photographs. The paper was frail enough to be permeated, and might've revealed much had circumstances been otherwise.

Unfortunately – but perhaps predictably – Mr. LaCroix had thought of that, too. A layer of black cardboard had been flattened around the documents, rendering them nearly invisible. Ms. Woeburne could make out only the blurry, utterly unhelpful beginning of a title: "_Recovery Progress on the-_"

And typeface choked short on a big, dense box.

Serena gave up with an audible snort. _ 'It figures.'_

_It figuring_, Ms. Woeburne decided she'd tampered enough. Whatever Mr. LaCroix aimed to recover via Clan Giovanni, it would probably sail leagues over her head, anyway.

She snapped the light fixture back into place, twisted keys into the ignition, and drove to Venture Tower with Gehenna in her lap.


	26. Bloody Brothers

**Bloody Brothers**

Colton King smashed a boot into the garbage bin, right hand holding what little was left of his face.

Rats upended out of the tin – furry, well-nourished bodies exploded from cardboard sandwich cartons and crumpled newspaper. Candy wrappers tinkled out; soda bottles leaked. Clothing flopped over in cotton-fiber tumbleweeds. Funny that, even as the trashcan rolled back and forth, rattling on asphalt, it was still a feeding ground. One spooked raccoon braved its fear of loud noises and ran off with half a ballpark frank. Mice scattered with popcorn kernels clutched in pin-prickle teeth. One old soldier opossum – a mangled snout with miserable, watery pupils – hissed, ignored, as someone's cat made away clutching its lunch.

If LA was a kicked-over can, Colt figured he was the goddamn possum.

The Gangrel's healing shoulder squealed worse than any of those animals did, tissues bunched, reminding him where ACP crunched through it several nights ago. He'd been squeezing the knotted muscles out in sharp, smarting shifts. Broken skin pretty much restitched itself by this point - there was little blood - but the bone beneath continued to throb, calcium bleeding slowly back into bullet holes. The vampire's brackish eyes threatened to well up every time he tried to rotate it. Colt had grown half a beard these past few nights, hollow cheeks sprouting thatches of brown-red-black, body too sore to bother being clipped. Facial hair hid ancient, bumpy scars over a narrow chin. Steel welder's hands, fisherman's chin. Thin lips rested tightly across a mouth full of shredding teeth. Thick, straight eyebrows and curly stubble clashed with the copper of his mane. Worn leather stiffened with dried blood. King believed the crusty inkling that he was beginning to look like a coyote, a drunkard or a hybrid of both, but couldn't quite make himself give a damn. Not tonight. He was in too much slinking pain.

Colton had known Marcus would be raving pissed. Brujah Antitribu Marcus Torres qualified as 'raving pissed' a good eighty-five percent of the time, more or less. But the Ductus had torn his ear off – tore his goddamn, motherfucking _ear off_ – leaving ragged, bloody flesh beneath all that shaggy auburn. And for what? King had always been a loyal foot-soldier, yet now he was limping around with a fist-sized hole in his head because – according to their alpha – he'd got two pack fledges served up an early Final Death.

It wasn't as simple as that and it wasn't as easy to live in LA - but their block on the totem pole was an ugly, stupid one - a gross snarl, the face of someone with no room for nuance or mercy.

Anarchs always _you-peopled_ like everyone else was some kind of neat fucking hivemind. But King had clashed with Rodriguez once before (though he doubted Rodriguez remembered him), when the Gangrel patrolman was little better than a grime-ball, a greenhorn, a pup. Baron had a couple bloodthirsty hooligans at his back that night – three kids itching to sink their claws into a Public Enemy, too small for pissing on Camarilla affairs. So they'd shot up a block of havens, burned them out of the old warehouse, sent a dozen other greenhorns to their graves. Colton watched four pack brothers go up in flames. _'Meth Lab Ignites in Intrastate Drug War'_ read the next morning's headlines. Ventrue cover-up. LaCroix probably handed out grudging medals over the slaughterhouse ordeal; God knows he sent in a damn good cleaning crew.

Seemed like only opportunity to scorch Sabbat cajoled those two factions into working together. The Sabbat shot back and observed this little parallel with a snort. It didn't figure much to him most nights; _those-people_ were all the same pompousness and all the same disaster to him. Fuck Rodriguez, fuck their half-machine some idiot fledglings thought fought something real, fuck the hypocrite madmen that ran his gang and theirs. Colt didn't take it personally. He hated the Brujah just for being what they were.

Anarchs hit the streets like violent jokes; that was a given, an understood, an old story with lots of shot shoulders and ash piles to tell it. But King's animosity for their core clan had sprouted not with Free-State demagogues, but with Marcus Torres, downtown's local chapter-head and assistant to the Los Angeles Bishop. The man always had a short fuse. Had eagle-eyes like an alcoholic marine, no smiles, and an uzi. He took that militant image to heart; chain-of-command meant passing the buck one officer down for every hiccup in their operation. It was his general principle, his disciplinary code. Should have been a drill sergeant. Should have been a different kind of beast.

Colton belly-crawled back to Hallowbrook fully expecting a beating. He had not anticipated their Ductus would both yank an ear out of his head _and_ boot him, bleeding, curbside to limp off somewhere else. _'Like it was my fucking fault,' _the Gangrel had muttered outside that door, but only when safely out of range. His jowls curled with the effort of not licking his wounds. Coarse texture, livid fangs. A lost lobe over two overeager neonates and a failure to waste some thin-blooded bitch, a mongrel whose existence was an ultimate offense to those who'd been made better, made with something in mind.

Colt ducked at a passing police truck, haunches dipping beneath the buzz of bad streetlights. His uninjured side soaked up another glob of head blood. You could almost could taste the smog melting into city air; it would be a hot dawn, humid and uncomfortable even for West California. Finding a cool place to sleep was going to be a pain in the ass. But he wasn't about to go creeping back to their home grounds, nosing into the shameful security of numbers - not until these skull cracks stopped dribbling red, or they went elsewhere for a time. Should King show his face there before Torres calmed down, Marcus would gladly twist off the other ear. Shit, it wouldn't surprise Colton if their Ductus kept a wall of insubordinate fledgling parts tanned and tacked up in a frosty basement somewhere. King bullied the door of a heroin pusher back home who did something like that. Sick bastard had a freezerful of thumbs he'd whack off clients who couldn't meet their interest rates. Course, this was long before Colton'd been torque wrenched, bitten and buried, then left to claw his way out of the summer gravel on Guntersville Lake.

Eight years. Like most anybody with half-a-brain, he thought 'Camarilla pathos' and 'Anarch passion' translated into two steaming loads of bullshit that smelled about the same. But they were right about one very particular thing: Sabbat Embrace was a bitch.

Hurting, embarrassed and tired, Colton wandered through the cramped allies outside Central Domain for maybe an hour before settling down. There was a condemned garage not far, one with bar-locks and windows plated in tin. Usually populated in his experience, but scaring some rotted bums or street punks from their nook was simple business; he'd grabbed one of the men and drained his throat easy as anything, easy as dying. It left King picking lint from his teeth, mouth filmed with low-quality blood and unwashed scarf. Slimy fare, even to him, but lone wolves couldn't risk the attentions of kine police. No one would miss some random hooch-slugger. Colt rolled his body outside.

_'Community service,'_ the Gangrel huffed, dumping the cadaver into an unbolted manhole. He listened for its impotent _'ploosh!'_ before moving on.

Returning to the temporary nest, King kicked their community fire barrel out, chained both metal sliding-doors shut, and gingerly stretched his aching body across cold concrete. Urban misery – it smelled and felt familiar. Sleep would speed his repair, though, providing he could relax enough in this makeshift bunk to ever reach it. He wondered who was leading the patrols tonight. He scratched at the ragged skin of his ear.

_'Ain't like I got anything better to do with my time,'_ Colton admitted, turning against the cement. His body was more vicious than he should've let it be. The action and the truth made shallow wounds scream all over again, feel like fire. He pillowed his scalp scabs upon a coat sleeve and tried to play dead.

And there he lay awake through morning – hateful, bleeding slowly, disturbed by a frisson of doom he could not explain.


	27. The Romulus Complex

**The Romulus Complex**

Mira Giovanni sashayed through the foyer dark, bathrobe stuck to her ribs, waiting patiently to hear her cousins die.

They'd been convenient idiots to come here – a request, a new superior, an agenda dressed up like a family visit. Oh, there was more to it than good faith and poor danger sense, of course. Overtures had been made. Appeals and friendly phone calls padded their relationships three months in advance. Then, just evenings ago, she'd concocted flimsy promises about bringing both men into the inner circles. _'Business associates,'_ had been the term, and its mediocrity made her snort between uncompromising fangs. Young she may have been, but Mira needed no cousin's help to achieve. This child had planned her succession and violent advancement through La Famiglia long before first splitting blood beneath that sallow California moon. She'd quietly assembled Old Money resources into a plan of assault so white-collar cruel that it appealed even to insidious Prince Sebastian LaCroix. Her powerful new ally generated the kinetics behind this wicked coup; his byzantine outlook on Camarilla politics was flattered by budding Giovanni ambition, and so he saw fit to fuel it.

Mira was no fool, though. She knew better than to invest trust in Ventrue bluebloods – there was civil ferocity behind eloquent speech frightening handshakes. And Mr. LaCroix certainly did not expect a fledgling already whetted on the ruthless edge of Jyhad to swear her fealty. But the brother-eating Giovanni interested him… impressed him, even, or so it seemed that way. She offered as her goodwill gift exactly what would pique a Prince's interests: advantage auctions, secrets, potential gains. Infiltrating some scowling grandfathers' dig plans was outstanding in its own right; taking charge of the excavation efforts proved even more exemplary. Bruno's freshest Childe was viciously shrewd – easily twice the entrepreneur her sluggish Sire seemed to be – and this so early in life? Yes, Mira would be an acceptable partner in years to come… until that inevitable evening she conspired to dethrone him, and Sebastian would have to burn his throat-cutting junior collaborator alive.

They had met face-to-face only through videoconference at this starting point, Los Angeles Prince and Giovanni upstart. But Mira heard clinical appraisal in the regality of that voice; it was obvious Mr. LaCroix approved of her initiative, and likely suspected she'd one day move for conquest. The neonate also knew threats always lurked behind Elder smiles. For now, however, she proposed a nifty trade, and the power-hungry West Coast Camarilla was all too happy to sponsor her.

One ancient sarcophagus in return for two dead supplanters, a rewritten peace treaty, and an exclusive position at the local magistrate's side? It seemed too sweet for such simple success, and yet the night had come. Any minute now, LaCroix's assassin would infiltrate their estate and wipe two very irksome gentlemen problems from her life. The conspirator supposed she should feel at least a little guilty, having played house with Chris since kindergarten and attended every one of Adam's graduations from eighth grade through MBA. All the sting and all the distress of their deaths had rinsed right off in a steaming shower, though. Instead of grieving for what had to happen, Mira wrapped every short brown bristle of hair in a soft blue towel and found herself strolling happily down the guest hallway, naked feet leaving damp toe-spots upon white marble. Oh, well.

_'It's not as if either one of those poor boys would pass over a chance to do the same thing in my shoes. Luckily for me, my cousins are about as imaginative as they are motivated... which is to say not at all. Too bad, so sad.' _The woman almost sang it out.

Why cry for a dead relative or two? Any minute now, and this entire dynasty would be as good as hers.

What would it look like, the caballer wondered, winding around potted palms and these frigidly clean corridors? She guessed Chris was curled up in a twist of quilts, perpetually cold. He'd always been a light sleeper – used to kick the crap out of her when she'd spend weekends at Aunt Cecilia's during summer vacation. He'd wander around in socks with tiny plastic treads. He'd eat all the chocolate Pop-Tarts from the pantry before his noon-riser bedmate ever woke up. If there was any danger of shaking the target beforehand, it would be Chris. Chris, _Christopher_, not-Giovanni. The name she chose to stamp him with did not make this any less wrong. Still, Mira felt sure that ambivalent lovechild with muffled heels and coddling mother would never foresee this deception… not deception of the fratricidal variety, anyway. It was regrettable, but her younger cousin was a waste of bloodline they could not afford_. No favorites. _Hopefully LaCroix's mercenary was fast enough not to butcher him too badly. The mental image of a cyanotic face strangled in bedclothes, shallow cheeks, cold feet, tongue swollen in his mouth, was not one she particularly relished.

Adam, on the other hand, crashed like brick bags – shit-eating corporate boar – limbs haphazard, wreck of silk sheets, clogged sinuses. He snorted and puffed like a sow in his sleep. Waltzing in and sticking a knife in him would be child's play, really. She could probably have done it herself. It was almost embarrassing to hire Camarilla killers for such a pathetic task, but Mira must exercise prudence; being connected with these murders was not an option, as she'd already be marked _prime suspect_ due to their relevant ties. Which was sort of a shame, as there might've been some karma enjoyment from dipping one finger into that dull stone's brains. He always talked to her like she was a fucking cabbage - a piece of scenery with a vagina. Chauvinist prick. It was cheap dislike, though – not worth peeking, not fair compensation for the risks it entailed. Missing out on the visceral details was only a minor disappointment. Far better to relax, enjoy pristine tile beneath her soles, and let another vampire smear red fingerprints across Uncle Bruno's walls.

Uncle Bruno – oh, _yes_. That would be the sweetest prize there was. Once she eliminated all these immediate competitors, Sebastian delivered her cushy advising seat, and Mira screwed this family's head on straight… old Bruno'd be the next silver urn on their fireplace mantle. With that wrinkled, lemonrind badger out of the way, nothing would stumble her victory slope to taking this branch. And the extermination of LA's current Giovanni kingpin carried loads of sentimental value to its young heiress, as well. Prince LaCroix had secured their lineage's future more than he knew. Things would be very different around here once _she_ was calling the ship shots and rubbing elbows with Primogen. No more adolescent chess matches for advancement; no more frivolous expenditures on mutiny parties disguised as reunions; no more draining resources chasing pet ghost hobbies. Best of all: _'No more fucking that senile, sideways fat bastard for my allowances.'_

Mira had always been beautiful. It was time to be an ugly bitch.

She rounded one last corner into a snug first-floor antechamber. It was a hardwood, icy room with black leather furniture and windows drowning in cream curtains; one dusty, neglected fireplace sat beneath an iron cage. Her uncle usually used this area as a semi-public study or to show off for donnish Rossellinis. Because it was unlocked, there were assuredly cameras trained every-which-way – Mira saw no harm in using a brief reading foray as her alibi. She thumbed through the intimidating bookshelves for several moments before pulling out a tedious copy of Gide and settling down into one particularly vainglorious recliner. There was wax from the wood in every pore. Her elbows sank into plush, shoulders shuffling the upholstery, pride nastily hoping to leave water stains. Her tourniqueted scalp leant back, perfectly at ease. Stray tendrils leaked snakelike down a muscular neckline. Bare heels bounced contentedly between cigar trays on the coffee table. Silver candlesticks, Venetian chandelier, imported furniture, the perpetual reek of mint to cover embalming scents… they would all be short-lived. Things would change. Things would never be the same in the California family.

She'd just rounded page eighteen when one crisp chirp buzzed in the Giovanni's robe pocket.

"Ms. Mira," her caller said - male voice, unmistakable pomp, English the quality of crystal. His greeting tinkled like wind chimes. It was an outrageously simple report. "I have just spoken to my associates. It is done."

"Thank you," she replied. Two words, equally plain – a euphoria of _success _that swept through her stagnant heart.

"Yes." One pause was all he had. "We'll speak again very soon."

She listened for the quiet _'click_,_' _flipped her cellular closed, and tucked it discreetly back into Downy fluff. Mira's body was entirely still. _The Immoralist_ had swirled into a meaningless slab. Water trickled droplet-by-droplet down her spine. For six long seconds – before smarter fingers made the pages turn – Mira Giovanni looked at nothing.

The plan was sweet. The plan was complete.


	28. Shotgun Treason

**Shotgun Treason**

More striking than any other feature was the hair, Lily decided – yards of it, corn yellow in plaits, braid wrestled down by bobby-pins. Uncut ends curled slightly beneath her ears, the rest of it straight and heavy down an honestly pretty gamey back. White gloves, undone cuffs, sleeves bunched halfway up to the shoulders of what looked like a man's shirt. The woman's face was round with a triangular chin. Her lips hovered on the edge of expression, but those eyes were utterly unsmiling. They looked like open oil rigs, she thought… colorless, razorlike, quietly dangerous. Not a coy grin, but a confidence. She wore an alpha look.

"Beautiful lady."

A rap on the countertop startled her. She jumped to find Rodriguez's forearm flattened on the bar, her reflection blank in the dull steel at his wrist. "What?"

"The picture," he said, a flick of the chin. "Good-looking woman. Right?"

"Yeah," Lily answered, slightly derailed as the crappy barstool shook. She had been sitting here alone for almost a full hour, waiting to see if he was going to show up tonight. Damsel had told her 'yes,' but it was hard to trust spitfire promises just yet. Walking into _The Last Round_ was nerve-wracking enough, especially since people like her had no kind of business in a place like this. So many factors made that plainly clear, but with the guns on the tables and the dead-men pictures on these walls, here she was anyway. _"Just waiting to see"_ went the excuse. That's what she'd told the Den Mother, ay any rate. That's what she'd said the last two times they'd talked, lopsided conversations, anxiety and vitriol and two different colors of red.

Lily Harris had been _watching-to-see_ for three visits now – each a little longer than the last – all of them disappointed until this one. Almost tonight, too; she had about fifteen minutes left before grabbing her coat when Rodriguez finally _did_ materialize, apparently from nothing, posture a familiar casual and eyes a familiar, afterdeath blue. His expression was amiable but silent. There was no time to ricochet up and choke.

"Yeah, sure is," Lily said, surprised at how true that was, and how easy it felt to admit. "Who is she?"

"Happens to be my Sire," the Anarch said, small smile not without pride of that straight-faced portrait. He twisted around to prop both elbows behind him upon the bar. "Small legend. History now, of course. But wasn't she a peach?"

"Your Sire?" Dumb thing to parrot. She'd learned enough of Kindred biology to know how vampires were created, a process with no exception, but somehow his admission rang oddly in all this smoke. Lily couldn't say if the strangeness came from how different that iconic, handsome blonde looked from her descendent – or if it was a challenge to think of Nines Rodriguez having ever been human – but there it was, difficult and unsettling.

"Kid, what the hell did I just say?" His annoyance was good natured, but curt enough to promise _only for now_.

She stomped reverse, combed her mop into submission. Its color stuck oddly, bright orange-out. "I heard you. Heard you the first time. It's just that I've been wondering who she was; I wouldn't have guessed your Sire."

An eyebrow quirked at her. "That so hard to believe?"

"No, no. I just mean…" Truth would have gone _yes_. And with the hindsight of all that happened, the fledgling couldn't think of a reason to lie to Baron LA – not about this, anyway. She was too insignificant to have leave impressions upon warlords or executives. "Well. Yeah. Honestly, yeah: I guess it is."

"Shouldn't be. We all start off the same way, Slim," the Brujah reminded. He kicked one ankle over the other and leaned his weight back. "Not easy to keep that in perspective. But that's how it is. Seems like you're hopeless, but used to be a time I wasn't much better off… stumbling around, figuring it out, getting myself killed." Rodriguez grinned suddenly – modestly – glancing down, away. "Never did a Ventrue's dishes, though. That's all you."

It was a tease, an inside joke, something harmless, but but Lily felt caught between horses. Her commitment to protecting Ms. Woeburne's reputation and stature was at odds with this place - with considering; with being in at it; with coming back, too many one-last-times. She didn't like The Last Round. These edges were too hard for her, the smell all gunpowder and anger, a danger-energy where you didn't feel threatened but couldn't sit down. It wasn't somewhere to be relaxed. And the thin-blood _wasn't_ relaxed, not in a den of vampires; but all those dislikes were muddled up with how badly she had missed this sort of talking, offhand and unfussy, no subheadings or main points. No precedents and legal terms. No Camarilla, no _Miss_, no kings.

Her defensiveness also clashed something similar: the offer of friendship. Friendliness was foreign fare by now. But it hadn't been so long ago that Lily forgot what it looked like: light mockery, sincere advice, interest that wasn't always polite but was genuine. Friends were not made in afterthoughts or the distracted mumbling done over a laptop screen. In the limited time she'd had with him, Rolf had made it clear. Conventions of past lives were over once you woke up with cold heart and emptiness behind the bone of your chest. All your senses and ideas and emotions and wishes were still there, implanted, but changed. Your brain was altered, ink spots in a water vase. You could never make those colors connect the same way again.

But the way Nines Rodriguez spoke and stood brought them pretty close. Lily tried to let the image of Serena, cool and composed with broken nose, sift into backdrop thoughts. Attempting to forget it made her more afraid than failing. She looked back to the woman on the wall, deciding whether to hate herself or not.

"Damsel tells me you've been in here a bit."

"I popped in a couple times," Lily said, trying to brush it off, humbled their Den Mother bothered. Her second trip ended after twenty terrified minutes hiding in a smoking corner. The female Brujah had groaned loudly and approached her on the third. Their first conversation was grudging, mostly warnings and desultory stabs at sounding a newcomer out; the next went a little better, moving to guarded suggestions, mumbled support and half-hour politics with no real stick. _"He's got more important shit to do than stand around here waiting for mutts to wash up," _Damsel growled, then on her silence, amended:_ "Maybe next week. You're not dead yet, come back then." _It was as much of an endorsement people like her ought to hope for. She still hadn't expected to have been mentioned. "I thought about what you said. Thought about thinking about it, anyway."

"Good. Friend of mine has a saying goes: 'death's no excuse for walking around with your eyes closed'."

"Look, to be honest, I'm having a hard time getting myself straight," Lily told him, glad not to be watched as he stared somewhere over that-way. Maybe the fear, the wrongness, was not from him or this supposed cause, but in the fact her instinct did not react to either as a wise creature should. The alarm flags were half-mast and it disturbed more than anything else. She did not like how comfortable she felt in an plainly uncomfortable place. "I was hoping it would be cool if I came back in and talked to you some more. Sorry if that's presumptuous. I don't want to get in the way around here, and, well – obviously we're pretty much strangers. But I don't know who else to ask. And you seem to have done this Camarilla thing before."

"Does it seem like that?" Rodriguez asked, not really invested, mild amusement at her expense.

"What did I just say?"

The remark caught him off guard; his expression registered before there was time to backtrack. Nines chuffed.

"Smartass," he observed. "OK. That's fine."

"Oh, God. I'm not." Lily wasn't sure if she should go ahead and laugh or not. There was a self-conscious compulsion to touch her face, an old defense mechanism; it had to be shaken off. "Really, I'm not. I'm just stressed out."

"I bet, kid." She doubted Rodriguez was as self-unaware as the Brujah put on. He crossed his arms with the counter pressed into his back; his knuckles were bruised, a fresh pink scrape up one hand. Could've asked what happened instead of diving into personal questions, but remembered Ms. Woeburne's disparagement about this clan. Probably safer to ignore them. And Lily wasn't sure she really wanted to hear whose nose got snapped tonight.

Serena said it was stupid, but you had to like thinking of Nines Rodriguez the way he acted, even if acting was all it is. Heroism might've meant nothing. Bad luck didn't amount for much. But the pretense of a vampire who could be talked to meant a great deal – more than made sense, more than one unlucky introduction and a fifteen-minute chat. Chances like these were more fragile than thread; blink and you'd loose the traction, drop the needle, lose it forever. Lily wouldn't be able to forget without at least following that thread a little longer. She owed it to herself to find out why.

Besides, what Ms. Woeburne didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

"So… the picture," she said, glancing back to see it, the echo of Sire over Childe. "How'd you meet? Get caught in all this."

"Kind of a story, Slim," the Anarch remarked, reaching into his jacket pocket for a cellular phone, flipping through then shutting it off. "And not the most important one. We have to appreciate how things fall together. You got time to let me tell you something, or you got somewhere else to be?"

Lily shook her head. Serena had been too preoccupied for an appointment until next Saturday. It wasn't exactly information she'd shared, however, with Childe or friends. Deceiving him made her feel like trash, but Lily didn't think E. would understand. Turning a formerly happy man into a mutt monster made for suspicious moods; hell, he barely trusted Ms. Woeburne, a woman in a suit who'd spent a night on their goddamn sofa! Granted, fear was the usual response to being marked for execution. But Nines was different. She couldn't claim any familiarity with Los Angeles's Baron, but had met enough Kindred by this point in her life to recognize that curdling, wet-earth sensation about them, and it wasn't here. The Last Round seemed like it might be somebody's safe place, even if it wasn't hers. She thought its headman sounded human, that the smiles still seemed genuine. Maybe this 'Humanity' thing their thin-blood group had been eye-rolling actually had some merit.

Or maybe the Ventrue were a bunch of stuck-up assholes.

"Yeah. Sorry. I didn't mean to leave like that last time," Lily assured. Tried to, anyway. Her host didn't look like he was listening too closely. "I just didn't know what the hell I was doing here."

"Do you know what the hell you're doing here tonight?"

"Not really," she confessed, a flimsy and short-lived smile.

"I got reasons if you need them." Nines clicked closed and put the phone away. "Otherwise, there are things I could be doing, and the door's over there."

Ms. Woeburne said it: Jyhad was too big for people like Lily to bother worrying about. Someone like her couldn't hoist war flags; she'd never keep hold of the masts. Was it such a bad thing to learn a little about this life from a people less loved than hers?

_Learning. _Education. Practical knowledge – information suspended or simply not worth sharing with people like her. This was what she'd come here for, wasn't it? Lily stepped off her cramped apartment staircase and onto a sinister curb in the careful hope that maybe Nines Rodriguez could teach something. She didn't know what. Anything would do. Anything had to be better than being this.

"No, I'll stick around. I do have a reason." She said so with conviction. He did not ask what it was. "I'm not sure it's a good reason, though."

"Long as you're not wasting my time, Slim, I can spare some for you. Let's go upstairs so I don't have to shout over this," Rodriguez ordered, indicating with some impatience the two Anarchs bickering behind them. Damsel and a man she called Jack were embroiled in a less-than-friendly game of five-finger-fillet. Every sixty seconds or so, the Den Mother ended a turn cussing and bleeding into her shirt. Lily had been watching them disinterestedly before that older Brujah's portrait caught her eye. There was little else to speak of going on tonight.

She followed Nines upstairs, listening to the yelps, insults and belly-laughs, now muted through the floorboards. It was cooler without movement and constant arguing. The air away from that bar seemed stiller, ventilation fresher, dark corners quietly empty. There wasn't much to see – just dusty shelves, more political paraphernalia, several barren tables. Rodriguez scraped out a chair for her and let it sit there in the dim light. There were street lights glaring through the row of foggy windows behind him.

"Kick back, then," he said. By contrast, Nines had leant forward, frowning at a thought that probably had little to do with her. She sat across from him, but did not scoot in. "Did you want something to drink?"

"No, I'm good. I'm doing all right with that," she answered, and to no surprise more than her own, she was. "What I'm less all right with is the other part. The people, you know; the politics. I'm not trying to get involved in it; I just feel like I'm flying blind out there, and blind hasn't been working out for me too well so far. You said if I needed help, I could find some here. I think it's about time I need some. So if you have any advice—" _Advice_? "Things that could help somebody new figure it out…"

It was a reasonable request; the Brujah seemed to settle in, tilting head-shoulders-and-back, a less severe position. He hooked one arm over the chair, the other in his lap. She put both of hers on the table top, awkwardly far away. "I'm not sure what I should tell you. Or how much sense you could make of it. So let me be clear about one thing: you're welcome to walk in this place whenever you please. My door is open. But I didn't invite you, ask you, or expect you. _You_ came in here tonight," he said, a blank truth from a man who looked at her from the bottom of his eyes, something to disturb. "Why don't you tell me something. What did you want to hear?"

"Hah! Shit, I didn't... I don't know," she laughed, then cursed, exhausted at being put on the spot again. Easy questions were the toughest ones and they were the only kind he asked. Coming tonight was about clarity, but delivered confusion, stress and the uncomfortable criticism of examining herself. A minute didn't allow you to search very deep; Lily tried, but couldn't find words for that persistent compulsion, the one suggesting _we wind up here_.

"Anything," she blurted. "Everything."

"Everything," he echoed, amused, like she'd said something cute. "Tall order."

"Now you're just giving me a hard time."

"You enjoy it. And kid, you better take it when it comes, and when I'm here. Or you're stuck asking someone else for a full fly-by. See the hard time Damsel gives you."

Lily was about to defend the Den Mother, how patient she'd been – bring up or maybe boast that they'd talked a little, here and there – but her good mood sank halfway at the likelihood she would not see Nines Rodriguez again for some time. Tonight was lucky. It'd be dumb to waste it. So the thin-blood let that comment pass, mumbled some acquiesce. He began:

"First thing you should understand about me – and, by extension, us – is that I'm not an expert, and I'm not Elder. I can't tell you the biggest secrets or the oldest ones. This game has been played since the dawn of time, kid; every century adds a hundred rules."

You could believe that in the way Serena Woeburne lived and spoke. You could believe it in the decorum of meeting a Prince and the polish on ninety floors of marble. "How do you keep track of them all?"

"You don't. You can't. Only ones who can are the devils paid to do it. Which is a big part of the grounds upon which we – the Anarchs – exist. But we're a young movement. We've seen more than our share of troubles. Despite that, I've had the luck or the backbone to outlast most of my people, which – tell you the truth, Slim – ain't saying too much. Best I can do is claim I've been around for a while," he said; it was a calm, final statement. "Not a _long_ time. But long enough."

"Long enough for what, exactly?"

"Long enough to get how it works," Nines told her, squinting at a hazy date in his past. He used her phrasing with a twist of scorn. "Got 'caught in all this' in the twenties - and the machine was still grinding, even back then. Bad time to start playing Jyhad. But it was a bad time to be alive."

Lily nodded deceptively. She was straight-faced, but a bit blindsided that the vampire sitting slackly before her could've been that old. Right brain and left brain didn't always catch up to one another, hadn't realigned themselves yet; the woman knew age applied differently to their species. Rolf had been much older than he looked. Serena briskly mentioned her Sire's service to Napoleon not many evenings ago, and Prince LA's delicate complexion barely scraped thirty. Rodriguez was more of a grown man than the magnate with petulant face and glinting cufflinks; fuck, she guessed that actually made him _younger_ than Sebastian LaCroix, but backpedaled before that thought could twist. Physical appearance and its new ambiguities were too dangerous a well to dive into right now. Lily didn't want to open that mental can of worms. She said "yes," and "we're lucky" - and with meaningless validations, interruptions that looked to annoy him, she listened to him talk.

"My story isn't special. We learn early what corruption is. I was what everybody else was, everybody not-lucky: poor, jobless, worthless. Rotten system. Hungry, angry about it. Drank a little too much and shot a few people. I was just a kid then. Real kid – not a dead kid – but I'm not going to say I couldn't have been a better kid than I was."

Lily mumbled more than she ought to in light of the narration he gave. She kind of wished she had a mug to slam. "Yeah, well. I'm not the same kind of person you are, probably. But if the game taught me one thing: people are shit when they've got more power than you. They want to kill me for something I didn't do," the thin-blood spat, and with sudden aggression, squeaked in her chair. The glare that found her hands on the wood burrowed through them. "I can't kill them back - because that's just how it is - but if I could, I would. Really. I would," she swore, sincerely, enough that it might've frightened her were it not for the anger that sweltered. It was a small kernel deep down in the middle, but it had been there a long time, a hard knot, a stone. A torch to a stone warms it up fast. When it died down again, went dull and cold, there'd be resentment lingering: something to shuffle through, to fan up. Sometimes all you need is a match and one solid blow. "And I wouldn't feel bad about it; they're just going to kill somebody else if you don't get them. I'm not sorry. I'm glad you shot those guys. Some people deserve to be shot."

"Some do. Lot do. But you better have a reason if you're goin' to kill somebody, and being sore about the shit you got dealt ain't one. I like to think I'm a better man than way back when," he said, and she opened her mouth to say something – who knows what – but the Brujah's sudden hard look cut it off. She could remember how he looked standing over the body of that screaming Sabbat, the two shots. It had scared her then. But there was a part of Lily that wanted, that envied the strength of his arm and the nothingness in his face. It was a kind of justice. It was the better sort of person she sometimes wished to be.

"If they're going to threaten you," she seethed. "If they did to you what they do to me-"

"If that victim card's the only one you got to play, Slim, you're not going to last. I understand you got it rough. We _all_ got it rough. But you need to square with that, and you need to accept what you are, what to do about it. This is the deal you got cut. Anybody tries to make it rougher – shovelhead or suit – then you make sure they get what's coming to them, and yes: they do, without a fucking doubt, deserve it."

Rodriguez scolded at her. It was not specifically because of her, but Harris marked the tangent taken. She gave a grim dip of her head. The Anarch exhaled and, mildly apologetic, placed both his heavy hands on the cool surface of their table across from Lily's. "Sorry. You asked for advice, not a lecture. You go to your grandpa for that shit."

"It's OK. I don't mind, and neither will my grandpa. He's been dead twenty years," she chuckled, a stab at breaking the tension, glad it seemed to work. Never mind that Rodriguez was apparently old enough to have built railroads with her ancestors. Or maybe to have shot them. He'd stretched out and accidentally bumped both knuckles on the wall behind him. "Mom's got this cleaned-up newspaper photograph hanging over the kitchen table of him, standing out in front of some old courthouse building. He was wearing his résumé - big 'Family Man' sign." Lily pantomimed the pose as best she could manage without an actual prop, fisted hands to her hips, theatrical glower, a juvenile pose. She regretted doing it almost instantly and let the stance melt. "Sort of a mean-looking guy, you know?"

"Well, people didn't smile much in pictures back then."

"What about you?"

Nines barked out a laugh. "Kid, take a good look at me. I look like I do a lot of smiling _now_?"

"No, no. I mean," she said, lacing her fingers over a knothole, more confident having seen that - though it wasn't a particularly kind laugh. "Were you a 'family man,' too?"

"I was a mean-looking guy trying to hide under my hat. You wouldn't have recognized me, and I wouldn't have wanted you to. Bullied for some bootleggers few miles west of the Illinois state line. Finally made a little money. Killed a lot of people," he added, ungloating, nonchalant, not the history that had been guessed of him. "Did a good number of other things I ain't proud of. All that time, I knew whose orders I was taking, but I had no goddamn idea what I was working for."

"Suddenly much becomes clear," she joked, not sure why the need to be funny edged in, not wanting to laugh at all. Liquor crime was not what Lily pictured, if indeed she had pictured anything. Nines Rodriguez was less an urban legend and more a biography dotted in shells. There are no victims, there are no saints, but a hero tale or two would've been welcome when you had such limited hope. He looked like the kind of guy who had three daughters under a roof he'd built - the kind of story with an American injustice, a woman in a refrigerator, a union revenge. Reality could not live up. She didn't like the thought of him taking orders from anybody, especially not that picture on their downstairs wall.

"Was never anything unclear, Slim. Live like I did, you run afoul of people a good kid oughtn't. Eventually one of 'em knocks you off; some of us just won't stay dead. Almost twenty years I buried defectors and snitches for that woman, and that was the half before she killed me." He paused. "Figured her out before the end, though. Too smart for my own good."

"Did you love her?" Nines chuckled at the question. Lily felt a little put-off.

"I didn't exactly volunteer," he made known; a smirk answered, ambivalently, the real question she meant to ask.

The curdle of Rolf and false romance drew color from her face. "Oh. I'm sorry."

"You got this wrong, kid. I'll say nothing against my Sire. Good leader. Good Brujah. Told it like it was; never fucked you around," Rodriguez recalled, a grim compliment, an admiration that was genuine but didn't seem fond. "Now, you can call what she did opportunism – and what she did to me was. It is what it is, Slim. You've got your own story on that. But money only ever meant so much to Rochelle. It's important you realize that vampires make most of their wealth off kine – I'll tell you more about corporations some other time – so recognize the rarity of having higher priorities. She did business to stay where she was, to keep the Camarilla's ball-and-chain off her. I'm not saying the woman was any kind of saint. But you did what you said you would, you talked straight, and you knew Chelle wouldn't leave you burning. That's what real society is. That's what being an Anarch is about, fledge. Only the weak let the letter-of-the-law dictate what's right and only the stupid don't acknowledge that situations, and laws, change. You got to think for yourself, and you got to figure out what people tell you doesn't make things what they are. Not even me," he said; he blinked; he rocked a little, imperceptibly impatient, side-to-side in the place across this empty space.

Lily let the pause wash over her, because there was no blocking it, and no writing this down.

"Bloodsucking gangsters." She gave a good long, buffaloed shake of her head. "You have to be making this up."

"Had herself a gang of twelve captains during the thick of that mess," he egged, easy recall, halcyon days. It was faded respect that outlasted seventy years of memory erosion. Sometimes even he couldn't puzzle out where the truth ended and the propaganda began anymore. "Real sweetheart. Bad with names, though. Better with weapons. Used to say: 'Where's my tommy?' 'Where's my nines?' Kind of stuck."

"And she turned you all into vampires?" It was a bizarre prospect, and she wondered with shown teeth, one scrunched eye.

"Just me." Rodriguez grinned mistily into somewhere far-off. Ringed hands were folded beneath the scar on his chin, elbows on the table. Lily thought he looked like a dream sequence.

"And you're still here. So what happened to her?"

"A Kuei-Jin bitch with a bomb happened to her. Blew her to pieces. Afraid so," he countered to Harris's polite, mouthed _no_. Abstract violence couldn't rattle anymore. Particularly not the violence aimed at someone who wasn't you. "Didn't have a chance; just gutted a whole goddamn street. New York City, and, of course, the Camarilla didn't do shit," Nines spat. It was a deep hatred, something that came naturally, that made stormclouds from the metal of his look. "Did they send a Sheriff? No. Call court? Not a chance. Inquest? Please. I was in Chicago at the time, but I know what happened. We all knew what happened. Wouldn't be the first time a Cam jumped in the sack with those devils, and I seriously doubt it'll be the last."

Harris stared blankly at her lap – cotton-tongued, ruminating, hands shrinking in shirtsleeves. She had the oddest thoughts in the moments of fear. Maybe it didn't make sense given the things they had taught her, that had been found-out; but all things considered, Camarilla was a pretty word. It sounded slightly foreign and delicately sweet. It was like a woman's name, a shoreside town, forgotten Latin - the kind that you read on an epitaph or something leather-bound. It wanted to stand for something elegant. Camarilla was a better word when you didn't know what it meant.

Lily jumped. Nines had booted her chair leg with the tip of his shoe. It had the desired effect as she came skittering awake.

"Left you behind," the Brujah saw.

"Maybe. Yeah." It was came out between a cough and a stutter; she got to fidgeting, reached back to the conversation, found something small. "What's a Sheriff?"

He looked at her a minute with no expression at all. Lily looked back. It was determination of seriousness, a pause, as the truth of that question settled in.

"Jesus," Nines said.

"And that other thing you said. Quay gin. What or who the hell is that?" the thin-blood pressed, not caring about embarrassment, more concerned with keeping up. It was too much input. She didn't know. "Please don't tell me it's another political party. Sounds more like a snobby drink."

Now Rodriguez really was laughing. He made a half-hearted attempt to turn his face away from her, but the shoulder tremors gave him away. Lily stared unhappily at him across the tabletop.

"Come on," the source of the humor complained. "Don't be a dick. You asked what I wanted to know."

"I did. And I'll tell you. But wow, kid," was all he finally said, a cruel observation, but not without pity. The Anarch was grinning immodestly, arms crossed flat upon their table, chin perched on them. He beheld the neonate with a sort of lazy bemusement. "How are you still alive? Only explanation I got for that is 'providence.' What's a Sheriff. Jesus. Don't those Ventrue teach you anything worthwhile, or do they generally prioritize the silverware and the fabric softener? Miracle you don't have the Scourge on your back." A lag. The vampire gave another frank, should've-been-dead snort. "No, wait. Don't tell me. 'What's the Scourge,' right?"

Lily sank into her seat. "Yeah, Nines. What's the Scourge."

Rodriguez shook his head in a bleary sort of disbelief. "You poor kid. Seems like an unkindness to let you walk back out there now."

"That's not fair. I don't know some terminology - a lot of terminology. So what? I've been getting along pretty well for being what I am," the thin-blood insisted, though the ease of that suggestion made her insides squirm. She unstuck her thighs from the bite of the uncomfy chair. She shifted painfully and made herself picture E's sunny smile. "It's not like this sort of thing happens to me every day. You can't seriously think I'd stay in LA if I was on death's door here. They only got me that one time. I'm thankful you were there, don't get me wrong - but the Sabbat thing was a freak accident."

"That you'd say so makes it obvious you don't know a damn thing, Slim. Don't get offended," he scolded when Harris wrinkled into a frown. Rodriguez's elbows pressed into the table. His fingers glinted from the overhead. "You don't have the luxury yet, and I'm making a point. This is a mean existence. There are no 'freak accidents' here. There _are_ a lot of superstitious shovelheads who'd kill you; there _are_ a lot of bureaucrats who don't give a shit whether or not that happens. And it's happened to bigger beasts than you. You want to subsist, you need guidance; that's different than a boss. And because of what you are-" A blunt glance flicked her way across the knotholes, over two heavy hands folded beneath his jaw. "Just a hard truth of life, kid – you're not going to find that with the 'legitimate' establishment."

"Ms. Woeburne-"

"I'm not talking about Ms. Woeburne. I'm talking about you. Nobody from that tower needs your vote, fledge. That's something you need to realize. You're being offered half-rate protection against people you clearly don't need it from and when you were in trouble, they had other things to do."

"What were they supposed to do? It's not like I got thrown out like a dog bone. But there's regulations about us, and she's tried to protect me, but sometimes they make it harder than-"

"When the law stops protecting you, you don't protect the law. Believe it or not, Slim, you're one of the lucky ones. You survived this long. But it's your people going to suffer worst when the Free-State is no longer around to stand between Sebastian LaCroix's Camarilla and everyone else. It's your people don't stand a chance in hell of getting around them or getting away from it. It's your people who need a space outside the law to exist. So you might not like what I'm telling you, and you might not like how I do what I do - in fact, you listening to Ventrue most of the time, I know you don't - but you need me to do it. You need our movement to draw fire, if nothing else; you need to get your head in this game; and finally, you need to listen when I tell you that, no matter how much you like it."

Lily writhed because, in the shadow of these last few weeks, she didn't know how else to be terrified. It sounded like a protection bid; she didn't have any monetary value. There was a dull pulse thwacking at the underside of her sternum. "I don't know what I can offer…"

"I didn't ask. This is not a trade floor. _We_ are here because we chose not to participate in a goddamn faction war for bluebloods who call us second-class citizens. We are a collection of strays and this is not a business. _I _am not a Prince profiteering off dead kids. I demand nothing from you but your attention. You can give me that."

"Yeah, but…" The thin-blood didn't know what she was saying; it tasted feeble. Talking to this person inevitably made her look like a damned child – like there was a life responsibility she'd shirked, a duty she disregarded, ignorance that smacked of immaturity. He wasn't quite watching her, focus shifting between a rough spot on the floor and a side-street through the tint of those old windows, yet you could tell when you'd disappointed him. Was there even a choice? Lily still didn't know why she'd come here – a however-many-time uncertainty there was no satisfactory answer to – and bad as these speeches made her feel, there was always a compulsion to stay. There was always possibility behind the guilt and fear of growing up inside a monsters' city. There was a chance, however slim, that she might avert the short doom allotted to her with the right steps. There was a hope that Nines Rodriguez could help you become something more.

"I'm listening to you," she said. It seemed like a compromise, not an untruth. "But I don't even know where to start. I could change my lifestyle; I'm not sure how, though. How to change enough to make a difference. It just seems..."

"Hard."

"Like I'll end up dead, anyway." Her correction was aggressive with the depth it had to be felt. The Brujah withdrew whatever criticism he'd been about to serve; you might've come up short on what Baron Angeltown expected of you, but if you had enough courage - at the very least, enough as Lily did - nobody called _coward_ or said you were someone too sluggish to try. She was not very tough, did not impress. Perhaps she was not courageous enough to subsist. But she would not tolerate him being wrong about her on this. "What can I do - fight them? Tell them I've had enough? Maybe I don't know every clan or a Sheriff or all the talking heads, but I do know they aren't going to run out; they're not going to stop. What difference does it make how I _think_ about this? You said it yourself: I'm not one of you. If Kindred want to kill me, then I guess – eventually – they're going to." It was something the woman internalized a long time ago; it was still incredibly hard to say. The admission tasted soundless and swallowed painfully into Harris's gut.

"I don't tolerate Sabbat in my neighborhood. There's a reason why."

"You know, I… I didn't ask for this." A wretched honesty – Lily had squared with being reviled since she'd been caught drinking water one night and horror registered on Rolf's face. Her knees hurt where they touched beneath the weathered tabletop. He throat hurt worse. "I don't want to cause problems. I don't want to upset anyone. If I could go back and do something different…"

Nines still didn't meet her gaze, but his voice was softer. "It's not your fault, kid. Frankly, we don't know why this happens."

Serena had implied as much - a dozen noncommittal explanations and sympathies - though to hear it aloud, by a legitimate vampire, meant more to Lily than her bleak face conveyed. It meant more than you could just say. She breathed in; she felt the compression of her skin and the dryness of her tongue.

"You position is unique in a couple of ways, Slim," the Brujah offered – a Baron's perspective on this topic was one few Caitiff lived long enough to value, and Nines made that clear with the solidness of his claim. "Generally a fledgling has to learn who to trust; they spend years bouncing between organizations and ideologies, trying to make a name as somebody's pawn. All that's been stripped bare to you. For better or worse, you've had the choice made for you, because there are limited Kindred willing to take the time. And as for the Sabbat – well. Let's just say this: who you associate with is not going to make them hate you any more than they already do."

"Fantastic. What you're saying is I'm pretty much just fucked." She couldn't manage the smile she tried, lips crumbling back around brittle front teeth, so Lily unfolded the cross of her arms. That slouch was in-between, caught in the middle of petulance and self-defensive. It was how most of life had been for the mistake-people like her. "This is why I am the way I am. I always have to assume everyone's going to hit me or kill me or chase me off. If I could flip a switch and block these groups from noticing me at all, I'd be fine with it – Camarilla, Sabbat, whatever. This job, this conversation – this is me facing up to the music."

"Sorry I don't have a better tune for you, kid."

She shrugged. "I probably wouldn't believe you if you did. I'm ignorant and I realize it. But I'm trying to be a smart ignorant. Ms. Woeburne said that, if I keep my nose clean and my station modest, I might find a place. And she said that you-"

"I have nothing bad to say about Serena Woeburne except that she chose her side. And I know mine." There was a solidness to the Anarch's declaration that condemned, that made a promise. He had no other remarks about her, or what had passed between them.

Lily did not push. Perhaps the contrast between empty-table candidness and corporate diatribes in too-tight seatbelts was clear enough.

Her throat packed like cotton. Her hands buzzed with the weight of feeling doomed. "Sometimes I just want to stop, you know?"

"Can't."

"So what can you do?" The smart child wanted to know.

He smiled, and it was beautiful enamel, candlewax promises. They would melt in a few hours and leave cold, functionless spots sticking on the back of her brain. She couldn't get the bloodstains out. She couldn't relight without oil or flame. "Simplest thing in the world, kid. You keep going. You find some good people, some people willing to help you watch out for yourself, some people you like. You make yourself that place you're talking about finding. You do whatever it is makes you feel like a person again, and if you're lucky – and you're alive – the rest of it'll fall in line on its own."

"I kind of like this."

The smile fractured into another almost-laugh that embarrassed and worsened the like. "That right? Got a term for this little chat of ours in the Ivory Tower. Think it's 'treason'."

Her heart stiffened, but his face didn't change. Lily's thinned firm and chastising. She shot a frank, incredulous look. "You're not serious. I haven't done anything out of line. Nobody up there even knows my name; besides, I'm not registered, and I doubt that's going to change any time soon." _Registered_; a reassurance – or perhaps a warning – from Ms. Woeburne. The thin-blood still wasn't precisely sure what this implied, but after viewing that building and the methodical way it ran, she could dream a few possibilities up. "You have to exist to offend somebody."

"Slim, I do not hold bets on what the Ventrue call offensive, and kids who wash cabinets shouldn't, either." He looked at her in a way that dared. "But I won't tell on you."

"Hah. Shit, yeah. I guess you won't. That's something else I've been meaning to get at – why do they want you dead, exactly? The Camarilla," she wondered, unsatisfied with the half-picture a Venture office meeting and thirty-minute ride home painted. "You said your subject was unpopular, but there has to be more to it. It's not like you're actually anarchists. It's not like you're blowing shit up. It's just – I mean, it's like common sense."

Rodriguez brightened; he liked the statement. "You'd be surprised how a little common sense can scare the piss out of politicians."

"No," she said - Sireless, clanless, a lost-child threat that sent heretics scrambling for their axes in fear. "I really don't think I would."

Nines took this as another branch into point-making. She hadn't walked in anticipating there would be so many. Lily wasn't a Christian and she wasn't a reader, but if the Old stories meant anything, she'd squeeze around an apple in her hand. "As long as we're talking about your 'place,' mark this: the Cam doesn't have a trademark on its laws. Nor should they. The real rules are simple enough that you don't need a list to remember them, kid, and you don't need a jury to tell you what they mean. Be smart, be quiet, be reasonable. Don't kill anybody didn't try to kill you first. Don't stir up shit with older, meaner vampires. You'll be all right."

"Not on purpose," Lily swore, a rueful smile. He made Jyhad sound like a death sentence and the easiest thing in the world just by changing his tone. In light of this shift, she remembered a handful of earlier criticisms. "I've behaved myself from day one. So I don't think the Camarilla or the Sheriff or the Scourge cares about me, whatever it is."

"That's the name Ventrue give to their exterminators when they don't care about justice and they don't care about trials. You don't want to see one. About the only time your people do, it's because they've made more of themselves, and that is something purebreds don't like." Her gulp felt mealy even as she already knew task forces existed to stomp out their kind. Rolf did not like it. Sebastian LaCroix did not like it. Ms. Woeburne seemed to like her, but she, too, did not like _it_ – did not like it one precious, patient, peacekeeper bit. "Sure you're clear. You've got a badge to vouch for you, and I'm guessing you probably can't Embrace."

"Christ, I'm not _that_ weak," Harris shot back, not hearing how infantile it sounded, twitching under a tab of Illegitimate. And she might not have doubled back had Nines not stared at the neonate in a wordless demand of _explain_. "Whoa," Lily retracted, hackles alert, nerve endings all pin-heads from the impact of that fringe glare. "Don't look at me like that. What do you think I…? This isn't something I do every day. Just once. One time, and I… I, uh. I didn't really understand what I was." Was her face red? She fumbled through a distinct high school sensation of having been called the neighborhood bike. "The whole thing was sort of an accident. But it's over, and that's all. He turned out fine. I'm not breaking laws; I'm not making more."

"You got a Childe, Slim." Rodriguez's question was not one at all. She nodded.

"Yeah. His name is E," a single letter that slid over the gums and canines and tongue like a confession. "And he's – he's not really a roommate. He's more like my boyfriend."

"I don't care if he's your doorstop, kid, but you _better_ tell me you declared him," the Anarch pressed, what looked and sounded like urgency. His guest grew fearful at this reaction – almost stood – but Nines caught her down with an authoritarian flick of eyes to open chair. Harris slackened. She sat. "Back like you were. Listen, newbie: don't get spooked. _We_ think whoever you want to bring into your life is your business. But the Camarilla gets real touchy about new vampires. When I say 'touchy,' I mean apt to butcher knife pieces off'a you. So sit there, breathe, and you be honest with me."

Lily visibly paled. Ms. Woeburne failed to mention that little detail when she'd told her thin-blooded employee that the "situation" regarding E had been dealt with. "Serena did. She said they didn't care – not, you know, so to speak – because, uh, circumstances. But not to do it again. Not that I would've, anyway. It was never that big of a deal, honestly; it's just my personal… my life. I didn't plan on bringing it up."

"If you're telling me the truth, you ought to bring him around here sometime."

"I'm telling you the truth. But I don't think he'd want to." It was a mumble while the penitent Caitiff regarded her tired old sneakers. Shoegazing was Lily's preferred self-preservation mechanism, but this turn wrinkled, jarred, ruffled things up. The account was perfectly factual – E would want nothing to do with a crowd of Anarchs, however friendly their conversation might've been – but a nagging sore in the woman's stomach forbade her from accepting it as completely sincere.

It was probably irrelevant and it was probably OK. Nines Rodriguez was barely, and only, a friend.

A runt's moral compass judged harshly; Lily's guilty tensions and her admirations were confused stories, Siamese twins. She lifted her shoulders up, let them fall down. "He's not really himself around you guys. Vampires, I mean."

"Then he's a smart kind of ignorant," the Brujah remarked, and in the shield of a statement that pierced, reached into his jeans pocket to retrieve a lighter. He busied himself with firing up a cigarette. Lily was rather inanely distracted by his hands. "You smoke, Slim?"

She waved him off. Hanging around here was beginning to get hazy, unclear, dangerous in too many ways. "No thanks. Now that you mention it, I'm heading home," the fledgling declined, rose, and groped thrice for her jacket before remembering it hung somewhere else. She expected him to stand up. When he didn't, it chilled, struck weirdly. The contrast of being looked at unevenly troubled. She felt like a creature with all the hair poking up on her dorsal. "It's getting to be that hour. And, uh, shocker: I don't want to get my ribs kicked in again."

"Hm." The cigarette flared. "I wasn't going to say anything. But see how this sits. Maybe you should take some of that money you got-" Ash, smoke, roar in a contained point. Steel was negative color you could not put down. It threatened at knuckles and hips and pupils. The spark of fire fit beneath his largest teeth. "-that nice Camarilla money you got scrubbing Camarilla floors, and maybe you should buy yourself a gun, Slim."

She could smell the burning.

"Maybe," Lily said, like she couldn't _not say_, like a kind of stupid, like a tic of despair.

Rodriguez leaned back in the place he had left. He clicked that lighter a few more times, an idle afterthought, an effort to strike decent flame. Failing hiccups of heat threw into relief his neckline and the iron that sharpened his cupped palm. Willpower game – shotgun or tobacco. Smoke from the barrel was the pinnacle dare. You did it because it was dangerous and because you couldn't get the taste in your mouth any other way. You didn't have to live that craving to breathe it, to recognize cinders, to want a part of something that might have been bad for you but promised so much. The Anarch did not try to stop her. He sat under the clock on the wall and the black of the windows and the ruckus downstairs and fought by existing at all.

"Nines."

He took the ember out of his mouth and held it in one hand.

"What do they say about lies?"

"Can't tell a good one without a little truth," Nines said.

She breathed in and swallowed and stopped.

"I can stay a little longer," Lily relented. She lit her own cigarette, and she coughed on it all night long.


	29. Mio Caro

**Mio Caro**

It was July – the sixth, and a Thursday, to be precise – when Ms. Woeburne entered Venture Tower with another sensitive envelope under her arm.

Their building was in disarray as much as it ever was (which wasn't much), but the chaos of event-planning did show its head, a paper storm through storage closets and conference rooms nobody used. Servants scuttled in-and-out at all hours; financiers shuffled for Prince Los Angeles's signature; security captains normally more concerned with predicting Anarch activities took their pick of bullet-proof gazebos. Serena had always known her Sire to be a bit of an obsessive-compulsive. Perfection was demanded, not asked, in all things - it was an urge that reached up to his leadership. But it was also one that reached down to small-stuffs, trivialities - important things like mood light and tablecloths - and so one that racked up exorbitant bills. Most of these details were assigned caterers to make choices for him. Nevertheless, it was agonizing for a Foreman as work-oriented, sober and serious as Ms. Woeburne to watch a vampire lord micromanage entertainment blocks. Distractions prickled against her time-saving creed. She supposed he was right to worry about appearances, though - and correct in the assertion that this gala meant much more than a simple business transaction.

The Camarilla and Giovanni had not engaged one another directly in many decades – certainly not in official, formal capacity. Mr. LaCroix hoped arranging this meeting proved his modern mindset to all California; he could not afford to fall short of their expectations due to slack decorum. Apparently the Famiglia agreed. They agreed so eagerly, in fact, that both parties decided to throw themselves a unity celebration in their lavish hills estate… an ostentatious display, and a perfect public venue for central-LA's honorable magistrate to shake the hand of his newest cabinet member.

Patriarch Bruno Giovanni no doubt assumed this partnership was directed at him – and, perhaps, rightfully so. He was in for a rather nasty surprise when young Mira scaled the stage and accepted her position in Sebastian's advisory board.

All this pomp and circumstance nonsense was still checking in at insufferable for Ms. Woeburne, however. Having just punched a gown-fitting into her schedule between _four_ expense conferences, Serena found the idea of Jyhad cocktail parties excessive. Actually, "damned fruity" was the phrase she had used on a maintenance call with Shauna Breckenridge last night. It was no secret to the Hendon posse that always-exigent, occasionally-fearsome Mr. LaCroix could be a bit of a dandy about making impressions at social events. To be fair, her scorn was somewhat undeserved; one ought not cut costs when hosting your Domain's power-players, and Sebastian knew sloppy presentation could deal killing blows. You couldn't fault him for understanding how important showmanship was. His Childe would attend, certainly – likely end up ferrying iced AB- to her mingling Sire – but this in mind, frivolity irritated her. There were graver matters on Ventrue plates than rococo, champagne glasses and what to wear to some flamboyant vampiric promenade.

Not everyone was so unenthusiastic. Mira must've relished the date, Primogen were gossiping with varying degrees of skepticism, and Joelle was doubtless making overtures to LA's most ridiculous tailors in search of the choice shade of carmine. This last thought sort of irked the hell out a woman who dressed in office grayscale and did not tease her hair.

Ms. Woeburne's focus was currently more occupied by her late report than the haute of undeath. It had been a curious request, honestly - and, more honestly, among the most difficult detective stunts she'd pulled off thus far. Generally challenges absorbed the Foreman's weekend, perhaps a bit more. Not this unfortunate task. No: Serena spent not hours, not days, but over _one full week_ scraping up clues and telephone conversations to piece together the folder-in-question, as a matter of fact. In Ventrue Standard Time, it was poor performance. In LaCroix Time, that might as well have been the entire fiscal year.

The situation wisely upset her. It was not as though she'd been slacking. Practiced agents knew much better than to drag their toes on a Prince's personal tasks; she'd served him for decades, and in that time, had become painfully aware of how little her employer appreciated anticipation. Serena was no miracle-worker, however. If Sebastian wanted the precise coordinates of a Leopold outpost, there wasn't much to say... not besides "cool your monarchical heels and wait a spell."

Not that Ms. Woeburne would dare tell Mr. LaCroix so, mind you. The woman spent most mornings sifting through littoral maps these days, skipping over pestering e-mails from her progenitor, wondering whether or not she was about to be dismissed. _'Well, not really,' _better sense reminded, a pat that did nothing to fix the Childe's panicky nerves. Sebastian would never fire her. His progeny knew far too much about those muddled inner workings of this corporation and its chief executive; _"Whatever would I do without you?" _was one of the man's favorite praise-crumbs for her. It wasn't entirely a true sentiment, but neither was it completely false. She had just been asked to kick a little cover-up onto the café negotiations, after all - picked out, polished up, sent scurrying. It adequately described her existence to this point. _'There is no way in heaven or hell I will __ever _leave the LaCroix Foundation.'

Serena could confidently make this claim. He would almost certainly kill her, instead.

Which was why it was probably prudent to rush this information to him with all possible haste.

The operative stepped out of her elevator and into this familiar top-floor hall, gold-on-white, narrow and menacingly tall. Less familiar was the discontent group of musicians stuck waiting there, trying to look busy but failing. They wanted to question the new face, but got the green of hard eyes and her swept palm instead, told to haul their equipment aside with some short-tempered difficulty. She didn't even bother wondering about it. Being Ms. Woeburne – current minion-majordomo of Prince LaCroix – the Foreman simply pushed by them, sandwiching her portfolio case between bicep and elbow. A jostled bass clarinet player muttered unkindly after her before closed doors shut everything outside off.

The penthouse interior proved no less weird than the corridor leading up to it. Inside, Serena found her Sire hollering at a triad of indistinctive kine who shrunk behind wood instruments. Joelle sat arrogantly nearby, a pair of cherry-red pants and preposterous chiffon, sheet music piled on her lap like a pretty perched canary. It looked as though Ms. Woeburne had interrupted something distinctly unimportant (at least by her own standards). She knew she would've detested, however, the exact nature of what sat plain before her: that Ms. Lefevre, Prince Los Angeles and this unfortunate trio of violinists were all stuck midway through an audition process. And – judging from the unparticular horror circulating around the room – none of it was going particularly well. Sebastian sounded as though his annoyance collapsed into screams at least thirty minutes, two ensembles ago… and there was no officer better than Serena Madison Woeburne to tell you that a screaming Prince meant the situation could only devolve from here.

Had she strolled into Venture Tower expecting this, Serena likely would've waited on a scheduled audience for the first time in her life.

Then again, from the expression upon Mr. LaCroix's face, he might've been keen for a diversion. Unpitying eyebrows forked towards the bridge of his nose, nacreous complexion intensified by anger. The Ventrue's fingers were snapping a few inches away from one petrified player's nose. She had tried to argue with him. Serena felt a mite of empathy for her. _'Poor girl; how could she know?'_

Joelle certainly knew, though - no matter how put-out that preening creature might've looked, sitting there with both hands clasped demurely in her lap. Mlle. Lefevre, who in life had been (believe it or not; Ms. Woeburne partway did) a folk singer of some local applause, pounced at the chance to perform for a manorfull of A-listers. _'Vainglorious songbird,' _the blueblood thought automatically, a cruel jibe. _'Fancies herself a Daughter of Cacophony, no doubt.'_

And they were rehearsing Italian opera. God, how appropriate and awful.

With no other present observations, Serena stepped forward to interrupt the mincemeat her Sire was currently making of those tragic musicians. She gave the colorless hem of her turtleneck a straightening tug and stood behind him like any good soldier might. The tense shoulder lines of Sebastian's suit were progressively nearing his ear lobes. "Good evening, Mr. LaCroix," Ms. Woeburne announced with more than a little pride. Her demeanor was firm and neat. "Excuse the intrusion. But I've brought your reports."

The Prince whirled on her for a heartbeat's duration – frustrations redirected, demeanor bad-tempered and coarse. Cavernous blue irises fenced for blood. Upon recognizing the interloper, however, Sebastian puffed out a snort and returned to his more pressing business of destroying a few more inadequate souls.

Serena felt a bit chagrined. She waited for a good six minutes – sighing loudly while Mr. LaCroix shouted condescending instructions for string instruments (because theirs apparently "looked and sounded like scrap metal") – before making a second attempt. "Sir," Woeburne cut in when it seemed he had finally finished ranting. Both hands were politely clasped behind her belt. The coldness of chain emboldened the stance. "You asked for information on how to contact the Society? I have it ready for you."

Sebastian shot his progeny half-a-glare. He looked utterly disinterested. "Yes, right; of course. Fine. It's about time," the magnate muttered, offhand gratitude. A thumb flicked in the direction of his unoccupied desk. "Just set it over there somewhere, would you?"

Ms. Woeburne frowned. Bruised feelings aside, worthwhile Foremen wouldn't defy their Sire's orders - even the meager ones - so sucked up a shot of bitterness and trotted over. "All right," she said - that only. It was all right. He'd been preoccupied. It was as not as though she'd spent the lion's share of last week chewing her nails bloody over this assignment, after all - tossing in bed, fearing what might be sitting in the inbox outside. It was not as though he'd _hounded_ her every evening of it, because Serena's master was certainly not an _impatient_ sort, or one given to overblown, demotion-serving, skin-broiling temper-tantrums. It was not as though pinpointing the ballistic Society had been an unreasonable request to make; it was not as though she'd been flown here on claims her labor was a priority; it was not as though this should give any worthwhile worker, any _adequate _Childe, grounds to complain.

Serena flopped the red folder onto his desk with a particularly sulking _'whap!'_

Ms. Woeburne greatly respected, emulated and admired Sebastian LaCroix. Make no mistake about that. Despite the genuineness of a Kindred's care, though, there were still occasions in which donnish Prince Los Angeles successfully pissed the hell out of her. July sixth was shaping up splendidly into one of those nights.

By no means did she intend on dallying long enough to join Joelle's audience. The absurd woman waggled her fingers _hello_, grin crinkling with animosity. Serena managed only one curt nod for the Toreador, lips pursed into a small blueberry, before about-facing and clapping toward an exit. _'It figures. It does. Why I bother to expect anything at all by now, I don't know. But I'm sorry - what a waste of my very expensive time and effort.'_ Still, best to exit quickly, before she mumbled something regrettable and he replaced neglect with a penalty fine. Perhaps Sir Prince still felt sore about his Childe showing up so late on the proverbial rebound. _'Perhaps His Royal Highness should do his own investigations from now on.'_

Ms. Woeburne was mostly outside when a single note – harrowing, punitive and seconds too sharp – stopped her.

The Ventrue had imagined more reaction from Mr. LaCroix; he was a volatile and hypercritical Jyhadist, sometimes fickle, but generally what she found to be a predictable personality. Granted, Serena never inquired about his purposes. Kine – even undead-stalkers – were not this ancilla's business when they weren't brandishing stakes at the point of her nose. Prince's affairs were doubly not her business. She thought it was a safe guess, though, that Sebastian planned on some light and sanguine housecleaning before cementing his new alliance, sniping hunter outposts that toed too near the Los Angeles Domain. Just as well; this whole mess was probably their Sheriff's gristly issue, now. She might have brushed uncomfortably close to the Anarch Party, running interference for her Sire… but he wouldn't send Ms. Woeburne marching into a fanatics' foxhole. _'That's for damn sure. I wouldn't go.'_

Unreasonable or not, her assignments had been tamer since the escapade in that makeshift torture chamber. It was mindful of Prince LA to dish out conventional tasks – the intense but private stress of clue-hunting – rather than another shooting spree. Still, she thought being a little peeved by his apparent indifference to her triumphs wasn't out-of-line. Mr. LaCroix had been more zealous about convenient town halls than receiving this very precarious and hard-won bit of intel. After hopping so many stumbling blocks to uncover one well-hidden site off Malibu, Serena didn't find musical criticism a very satisfactory excuse.

_"I paid actual money for this? Do you have idea how much your representatives charge for one half-hour of mediocrity?"_ Sebastian had been snarling two minutes ago. The performers grew stiffer with every scoff and abuse. Ms. Woeburne's sympathy for them was legitimate; she knew Prince Los Angeles insisted on everything being crystalline _perfect_, and how that word _mediocrity_ burned. _"What, exactly, is going on - grammar school strings? Again: you are moving far too slow. I'm not going to book you to play this badly. At this rate, I'm not going to book you at all."_

_"That's the tempo. We can speed it up..."_

_"Could you, I wonder, slow down?"_ he dared. The woman who spoke was long-haired and pretty in the way of people too courageous for their profession. She willed down a grimace by looking blank-faced. Her voice floated weakly, but it was impressive to have one against the ire of those like Sebastian LaCroix. _"Because I would think you'd have to be dead."_

_"Yeah, honestly, we usually play it slower."_ Serena winced. She hoped, for their sake, that they'd stop talking there._ "Weddings, you know; meno mosso. Don't get me wrong, though - we can change the tempo. It's just a communication thing. I don't think we get what you're asking for."_

_"Do I have to show you what I am asking for? Awful."_ He had snatched a red violin away from the nearest maestro and propped it beneath his chin before they could muster up much protest.

They were the real musicians. That was a clear fact even with the instrument in someone else's hands; languorous, wailing brushstrokes had been pretty, but for some reason, had not satisfied. This obviously confused the performers. Nerves made the statures jumpy, but not ungraceful; they had played the piece perfectly, they said, as it ought to be played; the dynamics were governed by something not-quite-quantifiable. They were fitting – a joint set. And perhaps Ms. Woeburne's ear was untrained, for she'd never been an artist, but nothing seemed amiss until her Sire took that violin.

She flinched. It stung. It was not like music; it lifted all the fine hairs up her back.

He weaponized the bowstrings. Needle-point notes, viciousness - his posture was the same as theirs; his expressions not so changed; the mechanics at their base the same, fiber and fine lengths of horsehair. Yet there was something starkly different now - something wintry and bitter about the impeccable _C_, a hollowness, but one Serena was not able to describe.

Ms. Woeburne startled. She had seen this motion before.

* * *

_The woman was twenty-six years old._

"_You have come to understand, I trust, how singular an offer this is? I have esteemed maybe a handful so highly. You should appreciate what this says to your character. And surely you should recognize the weight of our arrangement. But you will find the rewards of my mentorship well worth your efforts, I think." Serena Woeburne, blood warm and cells aging, watched the hand that swept the ink into her freshly-drafted confidentiality notice. The blue was cold; the printer-fresh paper still hot. Pale fingers pressed a fountain pen neatly between them. Every letter tick was starting, abrupt; flawless penmanship, generous offer, but somehow both were empty. There was a nothingness radiating out from the boss behind his desk. He did not look at her as he wrote. _

_She had no idea. Perhaps she should have. _

_"Sign, please," he instructed, pointing to a blank line that sat beneath two towering initials. _SL. _Serena was not certain what any of it meant or if these terms of service were something she had wanted, but there seemed no other option standing at this point. She was not sure, but he was. There was ease in that arrangement. So long as one of them was sure. "Just here."_

_And that was how she'd signed away her life – because his motions, like him, were _sure_ – exact, confident, above reproach._

_Months earlier, Serena had been sitting at a café table, knuckles sore around a pencil nub, completely, humanly ignorant. She had not noticed how the coffeehouse gradually waxed and waned. She had not noticed the sallow man who sat suddenly across from her. It took the squeak of a Styrofoam cup being pushed across varnish to jar Ms. Woeburne awake._

"_Ah," the kine said, cringing from instinct. A cappuccino stood tall before her on the table. Its scent was inviting, caramel and Chilean beans. Reflex compelled her to grab it; experience said she had no interest in entertaining a stranger in a tie. "That' very kind of you. But no. No thank you," Serena dismissed. _

_The suit did not retreat. It said: "I think you will want to hear this."_

_She had not even glanced up. She was prepared to be very annoyed. She looked through the rising steam into a colorlessness that threatened to kill.  
_

_The first thing she noticed was what they always did. Expenses, practicalities, exteriors suggesting station and worth: immaculate grooming, fair hair, wrinkelessness, how very young these features seemed for such a costly presentation. It was terribly human of her, but these were the features that grabbed, the basic kind of inspection. The second thing she noticed, however, was that same motion - that same implication of certainty. Clean-faced, mild investment, intensive; he could not have been very much her senior, yet spoke to Ms. Woeburne as though she were a child. Authoritative elbows leant far forward against the slick tabletop, imposing. He was quick and intended. He never blinked. _

"_You don't know who I am, do you?" the man asked. Serena felt herself oddly compelled by the violent color of his stare. It was somehow very old. It reminded her of thunderstorms at sea._

* * *

No school could teach you how to be human.

Jyhad is a muddle of mythos and agendas. Its poeticisms contain grains of truth in the lies, and though the metaphors for afterlife are often dramatic (not often proven), some of them resonate. Dead things have no senses. Undead things merely have a different set. But even in the full flower of life, you cannot learn a feeling; you cannot be told a passion; you either are one who holds it, or you do not. Interests change - motives change - but this is one of the facts that whatever they are does not evolve, and it is not bred out, and it has not become something new.

Sebastian LaCroix does not slip, stumble or hesitate in any endeavor he makes. His bearing was unimpeachable; his efforts were frighteningly conscious and clipped to the second. The bow dipped against its tightropes without a catch. There is no sleepy sound; they are decisive, combustion, distinction and measure. The man's face is inexpressive. Strident lunges of arms communicate little more than the aggravation that tightens a Prince's mouth. He played fiercely, like a sharp-shooter. Each high chord tweaked a tendon down Ms. Woeburne's neck.

It was not very good. He was not very good, truly; it was an unfinished example, something incomplete. Yet he made no mistakes. She could not explain why.

Other clans Embraced like Gothic novels – cosseted Childer, babies coddled by their Sire's tender reassurances. Serena woke up in a medical bed. Sebastian LaCroix was lucky to have woken up at all.

Ventrue are born with what they need. Ventrue do not require reeducation. Ventrue are well-schooled, in culture and in warfare, but there is something absent in their perfection; there is something dearly human it lacks.

Art and passions are status in life, rote in undeath. Ventrue do not need these. Ventrue choose not to feel, cannot create, do not dream; they draw lines, and that has not changed.

* * *

_The first thing Ms. Woeburne felt when her new mind began to clear was The Cold. _

_Cold light, cold brain, cold subconscious to wade through. Cold sterile sheets, cold white pillows, cold tubes feeding cold life into her veins. Cold hands, wherever they were. They were all cold, but they were all surpassed by this deep, primeval Cold - cracking, expanding within. She could not name it. She did not try._

_Serena blinked, but couldn't see. Vision was a churning pot of metals, bare bulbs and operative equipment. Her head pounded. Her skin seemed inelastic. She could remember nothing; there were no familiar faces to gently explain what accident happened, what injury rushed her here, what stowed her away amidst plastic-wrapped bedding and these barren walls. It smelled like iodine cocktail. Overhead, there was one hospital bag dangling from a rack; god, had blood ever been so red?; she traced it to an IV taped into her left wrist. Someone had to have done it. The woman would have hollered for them, but found she could not, for there was a dryness swelling cotton up her throat, deadening tissue, dehydrating lips. _

_Ms. Woeburne dissected the insides of herself. She felt tendrils sticking, feverish brow. She felt pain from the bright beams pinching her pupils. Her chest! Her chest crushed in on itself; and what she could not feel was oxygen wheeze in-out of her lungs. _'Don't panic,'_ Serena's common sense whispered through the miasma. _'You're breathing; you're alive. They've drugged us. We're clearly in an emergency room. Calm down and try to sort it out – what happened before this? Think!'

_Thinking did not push away the cloudiness. She struggled to peer past it, squinting towards the crinkly lump of coverlet over her feet. She could not make it sensible. The woman heard footsteps, though – patter-echoes, filling her ear canals, flooding them of anything else. Serena stared blearily into an indecipherable face above a collared shirt. It was no one she knew, and yet he touched three frigid fingers to her throat, counted silently, and lifted a cellular phone to one ear._

"_Mr. LaCroix," the face said, intangible, unimportant to her sluggish consciousness. "It was successful. She's waking up."_

_Mr. LaCroix._

_Sebastian LaCroix._

_Serena could not remember being crushed in an automobile collision, being shot, being stabbed and left for dead or a hundred other standard horrors. But she remembered Mr. LaCroix. He had been in a coat. They were outside. He had been holding a taxi; _good evening_; the brusque tug of a car door was the last thing before her eyes opened here. She could not recall anything else. She did not know if she'd been coming or going.  
_

_Serena winced, virgin teeth numbly clamped within her mouth. The random thought of him had triggered a Pavlov bolt of affection she could not explain._

* * *

Monsters with tools. Expired art. An executive's handshake, bitterly ice; Ms. Woeburne's empty reassurances, prickly half-friendship, her criticisms; a revolution marcher who could not play his strings well anymore.

The bow squealed short. There was no attention to closure or transitions. It sliced into an aria at an obtrusive, unsettling half-note; the instrument leapt to the his side like a ceremonial sword.

"That," Mr. LaCroix spat, and thrust the violin to anyone who'd catch it, "is what I am asking for."

Finished with the demonstration – because he was finished with everyone – he took Ms. Woeburne's Society report off his desk, turned around, and shoved out the gilt double-doors far ahead of her. She did not follow for a while. No one knew what to do.

"I suppose we should just leave," the bravest said.

"Yes," Ms. Woeburne agreed, "You should definitely leave."

"I guess someone will call us, then...?"

Three scalded musicians chewed their inner cheeks. Joelle tapped staccato onto her delicate bare Toreador collarbone. Serena, assiduous, but inadequate, could offer only her usual - only a sarcastic little shrug to satisfy them.

_"I don't understand why this is all so damned impossible for you,"_ Sebastian muttered, power fueled by resent, and by ten less-than-perfect eyes that followed him down the tower hall.


	30. Groupthink

**Groupthink**

E stared at Lily's computer, ring finger hovering over the enter-key, stomach sinking.

The limbo made his insides twist. It was not an unusual place to find oneself, tightrope-walking between guilt and suspicion, but the shadow of his hand across dark plastic said _failure_. He had never been that person. He had never been a rage-addict, a paranoid partner, an envier. It took repeat doses of bullshit to green this young man's skin, make it angry enough to crawl – and even then, self-doubt usually kept him clammed. Calm rationality was the domain of nice guys, and Eugene Walker had always been a Nice Guy. He was not a shutterbug flipping through text messages or lunging to answer the phone. He was not a personality eaten by jealousy who let insecurities germinate accusations. E exercised more patience than temper, preferred battening down hatches to blowing them sky-high.

Which was why it left such a foul, surreal taste in the fledgling's mouth to be sitting here holding his Sire's things. He didn't want to violate her trust. E almost didn't want to face what might be beyond that unlocked screen, at all. But the Childe was worried – had cause, not pettiness – and had grown tired of sitting up, a wee-hour vigil, wondering exactly when and _if_ their apartment door would open. He had to know.

Feeling like a covetous lover, the Caitiff stilled, pursed his lips, and flipped open an unread e-mail.

**Sender: Damsel  
Subject: you left your stuff here  
**

**So I guess Slim is too hot shit to answer her phone these days but you left some crap on the bar. Maybe I'll try to keep it safe for you, emphasis on the MAYBE.  
**

**Nines just got in. Says sorry he missed you but we have our own business. He wants you back here ASAP, tomorrow if you can, so don't leave the man waiting or you know what happens.**

**Tomorrow, Cam**

**DAMSEL**

E shut the laptop, relief lukewarm. It was not exactly a decadent affair or protest march into Venture Tower, but cheap evidence, coarse as it was, hinted enough to double his frets. He couldn't even put a pin on what those frets were. It was so many things; so many empty feelings; so many inklings that warned not to follow. It was a list of recurring names said with enthusiasm that weren't given by mothers. He didn't claim to know anything about Anarchs, Angeleno or otherwise – besides the fact they were vampires, and that was enough.

"Slim. Cute," the man chuffed, nose tingling from that stupid nickname. At least "Damsel" seemed like she ought to have been a female friend; and her message was sort of thoughtful, if one could overlook the vulgar and pushy tone. Still, guesswork didn't comfort much. E might not have known how to classify his frets, but he knew associating with Kindred - even sort-of thoughtful, sort-of-friendly ones - was a rapid-fire way to die.

God, she had brought home a gun; eight days ago, Lily – his Lily – had brought home in her clothes a fucking gat, stuffed under shirt and tank-top, a bump like she'd smuggled a secret. There were no bullets in it. That mattered less to E than the fact his Sire said so, showed that empty cylinder, with a titter more prideful than nervous. "It's K-Al's," she laughed,_ just one of K-Al's, just an old spare, I'm trying it out, see how it sits, maybe I'll get one too if it still seems smart next week._

Every night there was a new story:

"_E, you are going to flip out when you hear this..."_

"_Did you know Anarch philosophy goes all the way back to Carthage? As in the Roman Empire-"_

"_Nines says the Camarilla is a pyramid scheme, and the only reason we don't have more market regulation is because there are a bunch of money-hungry Kindred pulling strings behind the-"_

"_I'm not even kidding. America probably would never have existed if the Brujah didn't-"_

"_It affects all of us, even thin-bloods – even humans. Nines says things could be better for everyone if the Free-State-"_

"_-Ventrue only ever got a foothold in LA because they had their last leader murdered. Nines says they let the Kuei-jin-"_

"_And the Reagan administration…"_

It was fascinating stuff, he supposed, provided any of the conspiracy theories were true. And politics weren't what frightened him about her reports. _Frightening_ was the fervor and excitement with which the girl he loved spoke. _Frightening_ was how her eyes sparked with unnatural, untutored passion relating history and current events. E knew how badly their lot fared in this great and dangerous game; he would have welcomed teaching, honestly, but the problem was that Lily didn't _teach_. This was more like venting. Or raving. Or, and this was the worst word of all: reverence.

The thin-blood stared at their checkered wall-clock for a long while, waiting to hear keys jingle. Fingers tangled into his shaggy beach-burnt hair. Elbows pressed dents through sunshine-yellow pajama shorts and into both knees. He had been dreading actually doing this, picking a fight – bile and misgivings, uncertain what to say, how she might react. Confrontation anxiety made clustered seconds pass like hours. But when their lock turned, E sprung up, and he and flung open the door so swiftly its hinges banged wide.

Lily was standing on the other side, freckled face sallow in her surprise, purse clutched between both hands.

"What are you still doing up?" was all the woman asked, blinking awkwardly at him. She smelled powerfully of cigarette smoke and Brujah. "I figured you'd have been asleep already. Hope I didn't wake you."

"It's four-fifteen in the morning!" exploded before he could think up anything better to say.

"Yeah, I know – sorry. I didn't mean to be so late. Time just got away from me." Lily's shoulders hunched in their normal self-conscious way as she slid past E and into the canola oil aroma of home. It was guilty posture, but not extremely so; lackluster greeting aside, she looked reasonably like herself. He couldn't accept it, didn't want nonchalance. The hallway nightlights glowed heatedly within his eyes but weren't acknowledged. Childe stared at Sire, speechless. "Just let me hop in the shower and then we'll go to bed, OK?"

"That's all you have to say?" A gag, a snort, mouth swung open. Thick brows ascended a broad forehead when they should've furrowed, disbelief surpassing his anger. "You've got to be kidding me. Stumbling in here a hair's length from sun-up, reeking like a bar, left from God-only-knows-where…"

"You know where I am. Same place as always," she reassured him, like it was worth an eye-roll, an overreaction. There was a spark that lit up the grim evergreen of those eyes on Lily's back, scathing through her rumpled t-shirt. She had stopped at their dining table, unpacking the her bag across scuff marks: cell phone, key ring, spearmint chapstick. These were the non-forgotten things. He didn't know if she had bought the gun. He didn't know.

"Do you have any idea how crazy this makes me? Stop fussing and look at me!"

His paws felt bearlike around the woman's biceps when they clamped, sweatier than a good neonate's should have been, about-facing her to gape at him. Lily looked ashen, like a startled child's doll. She did nothing, said nothing, dull fang points peeking around the curve of slackened upper lip.

"E, Jesus. It was just an accident…" An accident mumbled, admitted only beneath the thumbs pushing into her underarm. "There was a lot going on tonight – a lot to learn. The atmosphere in there can get really distracting when everyone starts talking. I'll get home earlier next time."

"Lily," the thin-blood ground out, a verdict through tightened front teeth. "I don't want you going over there anymore."

"What? Why?" Good grief, that look: hazel, ovular, the fair, glossy look of an innocuous toddler with one hand caught in the cookie jar. She wriggled out of his grip, placing her own palms atop the man's shoulders. They were tense and clammy. It was a placating gesture – uncharacteristically mature – especially for Lily Harris, who more often than not argued in bubblegum insults leftover from fifth grade. "Listen to me, E. I got back a little late. That's all. That's the whole thing. There was a, um – a 'state of the union,' I guess you'd call it – and I was listening, so I didn't check my watch so close. Is something else the matter? Because I just- Look. I'm not..."

"You're not _what_?" He wanted to hear.

"Not sure how to tell you that everything's fine. Better than, sometimes," she tried, positivity dressed up like a confession, both propositions equally false. E could not process it. He puffed. He swallowed around the swell of his cold, sour tongue. "Except not. Listen, I know you care. And I'm glad you do – that you say so. But it can get pretty weird around here lately, you know what I'm-"

Better than. _Better than_. "Weird? Are you kidding me, Lily? You're never around – how the hell could it get weird?"

"Oh, come on, Bee." He took a step backwards. E could not say if it was a retreat or a gut reaction. The three feet of space snared her face with fear.

"For Chrissakes, Lil." A choke. A breath. Another lurched, convictionless step. "Don't petname me. Not now. I'm pissed at you. And more than that I'm worrying myself sick about it. Give me a break, here; just one break, huh?" It was a plea at her sigh. Made scowled at his maker. The cluelessness drove him mad; she stood there, hovering before their slumped-over futon couch, nervously plucking apart the shaggy corners of a hideous throw-pillow; teal unthreaded in her hands. "Can't you try to understand what I'm saying? And what am I supposed to think, anyway? You're gone all hours, I've got no idea where half the time, and the one thing I'm really sure of is that you're with them. Stop; wait a minute. Just hear me," he got out before she could interrupt. "Lily, they sound great. _Sound_ great. But think about this… really think about it. You've been going over there for what – a few weeks?"

"More than a month," she shot back, stiff with premature defensiveness.

"That's what I mean. That's nothing," he reasoned – fumbled for it. She watched him very carefully across their motionless studio, waiting to become enraged. "Who knows who these people really are? Who knows what they've got planned for you?"

Lily felt her fists clench into themselves. The shredded cushion dropped and hit their studio floor. "_They_ are my friends," she announced, a flatboard of a tone. Too little time and friends you didn't know: it was a story for both of them, behind them, the explanation for bad judgement and a little too much trust. So much could be done to you by friendly faces you didn't know. "Look, you're mad I didn't call. Fine – it's my fault. Why are you acting so stupid about this?"

"No, Lil." He knew it would happen like this, like a slobbery mess; resentment was wrinkling all E's scattered scripts, interrupting trains of thought. Keeping his voice within acceptable ranges was almost impractical, and relaxing overwrought muscles an inhuman feat. "What you're doing is way stupider. You're going to get killed. You're probably going to get us both killed, or worse. And you honestly want me to kick up and grin like everything's apples? It's not safe. They're not _right_."

Her face plummeted. E couldn't bring himself to care. Not through the anger – not through the knots of nerves. "How can you say that? You don't even know them. You can't tell me I don't. Jesus, it's not like we're a different species! They're-"

"They are VAMPIRES, Lily," he shouted, high cheekbones, angles dark.

"No shit," the woman scoffed. Her face, too, was beginning to singe; it deepened from runny chalk to the color of diluted fruit punch. It was paler than his, climbed closer to more potent generations, but her blood still ran weak. "Well, guess what, E: so are we. You and I aren't what we used to be, and it isn't going to change. I'm finally starting to wrap my mind around that. Eventually, you're going to have to learn to accept what you are, and you're going to have to decide what it means."

"Not like that. Not like Serena. Not like her Prince. Not like your son-of-a-bitch Sire. They are _Kindred_; we're just the runts stuck dodging 'em until God knows when," E barked, lips pulled around his front teeth. "That's not our kind, and you're kidding yourself if – after all this – you can think there's something they share with us."

"Do you take in _anything_ I say? The 'kind' you're talking about is the Camarilla, not the people I hang out with. They're as fed up with the political bullshit as you are," she tried to explain, knowing full well her Childe had no interest in the partisan war Kindred called Jyhad. The man's arms were crossed protectively over his chest, expression steel refusal. But it was no use bowing out now. She had to try. "We're not the only ones who put up with this. You realize you're not even a fucking speck on most vampires' radars, right? That's how much you factor. That's why the Camarilla doesn't give a rat's ass about people like you and me. They're completely screwing the whole society over and Caitiff are kept so scared that we never even see what's going on."

"That's Ms. Woeburne you're talking about," E cut in. He felt no particular trust or loyalty to the somber character in hairspray and bruises, but there was the knowledge of mercy given – mercy that was, by all accounts, precious in this world where _you're trespassing, lick_ and _you can't hunt here_. "She never did wrong by you. You have a good set up here, a good relationship. And you're going to clump her in with the despots because…?"

Lily had to take a breath – useless, but calming. All her digits sunk into the back of their dilapidated sofa. "Not everyone in the Camarilla is a problem," she said slowly, plainly, measuring pauses with each gust through her nose. "But the Camarilla in itself is the biggest problem out there. Ms. Woeburne treats me really well. She's only doing her job; I'll never say otherwise. But if she knew I even _spoke_ to someone she didn't authorize… I don't want to think about it. It wouldn't matter how we knew each other, or any kindness there's been. Serena would fire me," claimed the whelp who polished her floors. It was a certainty that magnified, each scenario darker and more upsetting than the last. "She'd kick me right out with the rest of the ingrates. She might kill me. I don't want to think about it."

"Which is exactly why I'm begging you to let this go. You're digging yourself deeper buddying up with anyone else. They could blackmail you – sell you out. This could be some kind of test, for all we know…"

"In the Camarilla, yes. You'd be right. But the Anarchs aren't like that," Lily insisted, and – though the metronome of it squeezed his heart – began to pace. She rounded an armchair twice before thinking. Her stare was glistening again with that horrid, jingoistic flame. "It's the Camarilla's fault you think like you do. It's why all Kindred have such a bad reputation and everyone thinks they have to live like fucking cannibals. We're all drifting around in this sick fallacy. If you expect to be stabbed in the back by every person you know – just because they're like you – you're not going to hesitate when you've got the chance to gain some status. And the 'status' is all made up by a few rotting old vampires hiding in Europe somewhere. It doesn't mean anything! Look, E – if it's bad enough to warrant an opposition, it's real," she suggested, but her lesson made him no warmer towards anti-establishment and conspiracy theories. He stared vacantly while his Sire spoke. She was so convinced. Nothing tapped through the picture built in her mind. "The Anarchs are just bunch of people who know the Cam is corrupt and want to fix things. _People_, E. Because that's the whole point. We're different now, but we're still people. We don't have to act like monsters. Not because some asshole who thinks he's a Prince says that's the way it's always been."

"So suddenly you're an expert on this," he growled out, feeling nauseated. She sounded alien, preprogrammed, like a smear ad for Senator Thorne. "And I'm sure that's fine for them, but from where I'm stuck – from where _we're_ stuck, Lily – things don't unstick so easy. It's-"

"Don't you dare tell me it's dangerous, either; like we're safe here with our heads in the sand. It's much safer standing with someone than trying to hang on by ourselves. Over there is the _only_ place it's safe," she swore, and before he could argue, threw on a wild-looking glare. Her eyes were a terrible sort of focused. "You have to arm up if it's another party's aim to shoot you down. Sometimes you have a right to violence. Sometimes you have a duty to help defend a place, a person, who can't defend themselves. And sometimes you just have to stop – you have to stop being so fucking scared – so fucking scared all the time. Nines says everyone needs to rise together if we're going to take back our city."

E gazed through her. There was barely anything to fight. And because the younger Caitiff could not bicker about affairs of state with so little information at his fingertips, all he had was a worn-out vow: "We promised each other to stay out of this."

"I'm not joining the Anarchs," Lily snapped. "I just understand what they're about."

"The hell you're not! 'Arm up?' 'Rise together?' You're beyond understanding Anarchs; you're becoming one," E hollered, fuse eaten by the fire of that lie; his tongue was aching now, gums dry, making it difficult to articulate. "You run with them, you smell like them – Christ, Lil – you even fucking _talk_ like them."

"I LIKE them. Do you ever get fed up with this – this letting 'vampire' dictate everything in your life?" And she took the aggressive, a pitch back at his reflection, not a position he expected. Her fingers splayed, eyes sharpening. It left him bereft of words or rationale. "I mean, it's a little fucking ridiculous, don't you think? You got a short stick; so what? It's time to stop shaking in a corner and face the rest of the world. Not all Kindred are personally out to get you, E. Mostly because ninety percent of them don't care enough. But the Anarchs _do_ care – they care about what happens to all of us the so-called establishment would rather ignore. And you're just helping the Cam win by believing this brainwashed shit about them!"

"Hold on. Lily, can you hear yourself?"

"Fine. That was over-the-top. But it's completely beside the point. Come _on_, E. They saved my life, and you're not even giving them a chance," she pressed, the hostility and disparagements cajoling to a whine. Her arms linked around one of his, unexpectedly sweet, a cradle of long awkward limb. His head hurt. His guts – whatever was left of them – stuck to his bones. "I wish you'd come with me some time. You don't have to talk to anybody. But I want you to meet them, at least… they're a little abrasive, sure, but they're good people. Really they are. And they have important ideas. Nines invited me to bring you a long time ago; just come shake a few hands and see what you think, OK? Just listen to him talk and you'll see why I-"

E wrestled his forearm from her with more viciousness than he intended. Or maybe not. "You're not listening to me, Lil. I don't want to go there. What the hell kind of consolation do you expect me to get? What the hell do you think those people have to tell us about what we are that I don't already-"

Her hair was a too-natural red in the unsatisfactory light. Her body was slack and grasping when it turned full to him, but there was nothing that reached, nothing sitting in the halfheld cups of her palms. "E, you have to tell me, truthfully," she demanded, but it was a sad _right now_. This argument was beginning to hurt in a way that made Lily feel smothered, buried, hands cut off. It was the way it had always felt. It was a familiar, floundering, deadweight despair. "Can you live like this for the rest of forever? Don't you want..."

"Want _what_?" He had to hear it.

"Fuck. Fuck, I don't..." That look – it made him stagger, made him ill. Nothing in those two twitches of hand. She had nothing to fill up her blank spot. "More."

"More WHAT?"

"More than this," was all. It could have been a prayer: "People, maybe. Real people."

"You have people. You've got Rosie, Jules and Ms. Woeburne."

"Ms. Woeburne is my _boss_, E.!" Misery sharpened to a shriek. The whites of Lily's eyes gleaned wildly, palms flinging themselves airborne. They might have sunk splinters. He might have checked – might have hoped for a thorn to yank out – easy blood, easy unstick. "And Rosa isn't even coherent half the time! Last week she babbled for thirty minutes straight about this 'Lone Wolf' character and some dude on a fucking couch! I don't see why you're all of a sudden blowing your lid about this – like it's something new, like I don't talk, like I haven't crawled on my hands and knees to get you hearing. They don't even care about me being thin. Do you know what that's like? I get treated more like a human being over there than I do mopping anybody's fucking cabinets. I mean… who the fuck do they think they are?" _Splinters_. "We didn't choose this. In fact, from what I've been told, it's probably Rolf's fault – not mine. Nines says-"

"Has it occurred to you that I don't give a flying fuck what Nines says?"

He'd planned on swiveling away and storming into their kitchen, teeth bared, but the audacious squawk of sound stopped him. Lily didn't move. She was standing behind the couch, verbally slapped, pacifying face wiped into incredulity, all those splinters in a jigsaw at her feet.

"Oh my God," the woman spat. Her top lip curled. "Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me, E? _That's_ what you think? _That's_ what this is about…?"

"I don't know what this is about, Lily," he groaned, terribly tired, awfully hurt. The Childe spun to face floorwards again, raking through dishwater hair, fingers hooked irately behind his head. He tried to breathe heavily out. E's jaw flexed and released and bit on a reality divided, molars grinding it down. He knew she was _look_ing; he couldn't look back. "I haven't known what to think for a long while. I only judge from what I see. But that hasn't been a whole hell of a lot. I _can_ tell that you're off your goddamn face with this Anarch shit. I can't say why."

Lily stared at him from across the cramped living room. Minutes passed before anyone spoke. It had begun to seem that they might never do it again.

"Wow," she finally said. E could never remember disgust so raw in Lily's voice. His Sire's wounded, trenchant gaze crinkled under the lids; it stared him sick; he had no heartbeat to count it down. He felt like somebody poured concrete down his throat. He did know – she had bought and loaded that hungry gun. "Wow. I honestly can't tell what's worse: you being a jealous asshole, or suspecting I'm capable of pulling something like that after all this time. Everything I've talked to you about, all I've tried to share – advice that really matters – and you didn't hear a thing. Because _this_ is what you sit here and think about. Seriously? You think what you want," she told him. "It's obvious that's what you're going to do, anyway – no matter what I give, no matter how far I reach. And if this is bad enough that you can't even trust me? If you are that fucking afraid, I've got no idea what to say. Why should I even bother? I'm not going to defend myself when I haven't done anything wrong."

E watched as – moving with unhurried precision – Lily dragged her purse open, tucking back the very same belongings. She did not meet his eyes again. _Where was the gun, where was the…?_

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" he demanded, stumbling around their cumbersome old coffee table after her. She'd swung a closet door, shoving through stray sleeves for a summer jacket. Canines cut into her lower lip. There was a chill to freeze its wobble, its weak-knees; she did not humor him. Not even a sniff – not even a sob – not even a double-take as he chased Lily halfway out into their building's poorly-lit hall, hands less full than hers. "You walk out, Lil, and you better not expect me to welcome you back tomorrow. You better not expect me to stay here. Answer me! The sun'll be up. What are you- Where are you-"

"To fuck my new boyfriend, apparently!" she screamed, and slammed the door shut in E's face.

_Going_.

Adrenaline rattling all of his ribs, the Childe flopped wearily into a threadbare lounge chair. He tried to catch his breath before realizing there was nothing to catch. He sat.

Steps creaked several flights down. Warm air hummed from the idle laptop. One prickling lump rolled painfully down the thin-blood's gullet; his forehead, throbbing, landed in both palm heels. Shell-shocked, E looked around.

Across the apartment – upon their kitchen wall – there stood a telephone, red bulb blinking quietly. Above it hung a whiteboard of numbers. You could almost read them from the collapse of a couch.

_Serena Woeburne_ was the third bullet down.


	31. Lost Lenore

**Lost Lenore **

The following night – four minutes after she'd trotted out Empire Hotel's lobby – Serena's mobile rang.

"Woeburne." The phone was pinned between khaki and ear as car keys jostled home. "I'm sorry - who? Eugene who? Oh – yes. Right." Mild surprise registered on the chilly Ventrue face, mild remembrance of a flimsy voice and flimsier presence. She puffed away a stray lock, tossed her portfolio bag into the passenger seat and swung a blue slingback after it. "I apologize. What can I do for you? Lily is here. I'm just downstairs; give me a minute to get sorted out and I'll… Come again? I didn't catch that. What did-?"

And she sat in that dim parking lot, fingers tight around the wheel leather, as Lily upstairs was revealed for a traitor.

Serena idled. E's explanation fumbled; each worry was punctuated by a mechanical engine _'clink.'_ Her lips – plum and serious – began to purse, just slightly, at their edges.

"I see," Ms. Woeburne finally said. "No, I had no idea. Thank you for telling me. Yes, you did the right thing. Quite. I'll take care of it. Goodbye."

She beeped off the cell, recalibrated for another moment, and walked quietly to her waiting apartment.

Ms. Woeburne, who was not a particularly trusting or tolerant individual, realized firing shots would have been justified. She could have erupted into lead and curses; she could have smashed something dangerous; she could have simply sent a bullet directly into that innocent freckled façade. But shock kept her from a reflex-action murder. It was reserve that congealed instead - a horrible, numb-mouthed sensation. She dispassionately observed the lean thatches of Lily's spine beneath pastel cotton-blend as her fingers rifle through a file cabinet, Phillips-head and unlocked hinges glinting across the floor. Flustered pages crinkled their annoyance. Floorboards creaked. Serena, however, said nothing. Aloe eyes, the bitterest shade of green, witnessed this scene with a documentarial numbness. Antifreeze betrayal hit straight to the pit of her clenching gut.

Unaware she was no longer alone, the thin-blood flipped through three folders before turning up a tidbit worth smuggling out. Hazel eyes flickered over fine print without truly comprehending its meaning. _'Someone has instructed her to seek out specific phrases, names, locations…_' Whom didn't matter at present. She had just finished creasing the chunk into an acceptable size for her jean pocket when the girl - dapple-cheeked, oblivious - turned around.

Ms. Woeburne greeted her face with knuckles like a nailgun.

"Wretched fledgling bitch!" Serena shouted, a harpy shriek. The momentum of her backhand ricocheted off Lily's cheekbone with a slingshot _pow_. It sent her squealing to the gray rug, jaw whipped aside, right sneaker catching one edge of coffee table and upending a magazine stack. _Wall Street Journal_ exploded into the air.

She connected with the ground; there was no time to cry out or scream.

Lily grabbed her face and thought she was going to die.

"How DARE you," the Ventrue bellowed above her, frightfully near, a thousand miles away. Everything was spinning and the struck woman couldn't get her mind to stop. Maybe she let out a yelp; maybe she begged _pleasepleasegodplease, don't kill me_; maybe she lay there curled up and socked like the thing she dared to be was. Meaningless tears flooded sight out and it felt like time stopped when that neat, trimmed hand smashed into her temple, aiming to crack.

"I ought to end you right where you fell. Do you have any-" The vampire panted needlessly. Stray brown tendrils unbuttoned and bristled around an murderous snarl. Her target could not retreat fast enough. Lily couldn't hear right, had been knocked into a carnival house of up-vs.-down; there was blood welling in the cup of her ear. Palms and foot soles scrambled backwards uselessly. Bottled hate uncapped itself; a confident, cosmopolitan pitch devolved into the rumbles of something aggressive and violent. There was nowhere you could hide in this terribly clean house. There was nowhere for Lily to go.

Not ten minutes ago Serena Woeburne had left through that same door - bored instructions, a work satchel and a mild _evening_. She could not be bothered to look back up or shake goodnight. She did not look capable of getting angry at all.

"-any idea? Any IDEA with whom you are fucking? Who are you to plant a dagger into me? I should shoot you for this. I ought to break your neck," Woeburne spat, lips peeling over sharp teeth. She was screaming at the top of her lungs. "Pick your carcass off my floor!"

What was there to do back-peddle, gaping, petrified? She twisted around to hands-and-knees, scrambling towards the empty dining hall. Ventrue fangs glistened a fierce white; her pupils flared until the eyes around them were bitumen.

Before Lily could reach that daunting red table – or fully stand – Serena intercepted her with another fistful of neatly-burnished fingernails. They sunk like a cat's, ripped crimson across the neonate's swelling nose - four of them, one for each finger, scratching surface blood into the air. Her lanky forearms broke the second fall. It was a blow hard enough to propel Harris backwards and into the undisturbed kitchen, where her orange head had glanced off one unforgiving counter corner. Bar enamel blackened the Caitiff's left eye. She caught herself woozily by a drawer handle, vision spinning. Its moorings gave way. Everything was lemon with fresh cleaning; silverware exploded across the floor.

"What waste of my charity; you stupid child! I should have known better than to lend my faith to someone like you. I should have known better than to humor some mongrel, some cur," Ms. Woeburne screeched, shoulders hunched in the doorway. She looked like nothing Lily had ever seen – viperous, articulate and beyond frightening. "How dare you" again. "Against all my better sense, I gave you a chance at this life. I took you into my care and home where anyone else would've turned a cheek. This is how you repay me? Thankless little gremlin! Why would you piss it all away?"

Lily, palms looking for traction on the linoleum she'd waxed a week ago, could not retch up a satisfying answer – could not manage the lie. There was no reason, no wicked premeditation to destroy the progeny of a Camarilla Prince. She tried to still the teeter-totter of consciousness. Scattered forks and serving spoon curves bit into her knees. One set of prongs punctured the Capris and bit thigh flesh, spotting three scarlet dots upon denim. Tears trickled around the girl's nostrils, joining a general icy burn from Serena's claw marks. Shame blistered hot beneath them. She was mortified. Mortified - both by Serena's transformation, from composed officer to hissing death threats - and by the knowing that this viciousness was not biological injustice, but something provoked, something she'd earned.

So many vampires have threatened Lily before - clan impurity, trespassing, illegitimate life - but never like this. Rightness was not a feature she had before seen in the wild hate of Kindred about to kill.

Last night she would have told him no.

* * *

"_Need to talk to you," was all he said, nodding her upstairs. He did not take off his coat or his guns. He was not two steps past The Last Round's door. _

_Lily had been slumped over the booth she slept in yesterday when Nines arrived, back hurting, her eyes puffed-pink as they stared nowhere at all. There was a movie playing on a rickety bar television; she could not tell you what it was. Her mind was full of static and nothingness. The Caitiff didn't know what ought to be explained, so hadn't spoke about it; she could not make the table solid beneath both hands; she would not stomach rehashing what had been said to E, whose face was an unthinkable blur right now. There wasn't much she felt like talking about at all, to be honest. Not to Rodriguez – and not to his Den Mother, who was currently sitting in the opposite bench, scowling, fighting with a nonresponsive remote control._

_Damsel did not speak, but she straightened up when the Baron walked in - fixed her stature, toughened her jaw - as everyone always did. There was a protectiveness about the woman that Lily knew could not quite protect her. _'Please not me,'_ she thought when he entered, when the door squeaked open and a familiar silhouette pushed in. Not tonight. Lily couldn't swallow what had happened, and she didn't think she could bear Nines Rodriguez right now. There was a dread and that small-fish feeling stewing again. There was a knot in the woman's throat that wouldn't come untied.  
_

"_Can't it wait?" Damsel snorted, gesturing belligerently at him with the remote. In the fluff of her shoulders, the want to be bigger, was someone trying to divert attention to themselves. You might have accused her of jealousy. That was not it. Not at all - in those moments she'd glance sidelong at at the neonate, unsaid worry, unspoken cares - was that it. "In the middle of something. By the way, we got batteries laying around? Can't make anything in this run-down goddamn shack to work worth a…" _

_Nines had nothing for her. He looked directly at Lily. It was not a request. "Right now."  
_

You._  
_

_She wiped her face in her hands and gulped that knot and breathed out.  
_

_"Ok," Lily said. "Ok."  
_

_Last night she would've told him no, but last night was a whole different world._

* * *

More than a few treacheries had wormed their way through the dirt and into this thin-blood's realm of possibility since she began frequenting The Last Round. Betraying Serena, however – who had always been so steadfast, so forcibly upbeat – hadn't been one. If Rosa looked her in the face four weeks ago and foretold, serious as sin, a one-sided fistfight or a screwdriver, she would've laughed in that prophecy's face. Becoming an Anarch had never seemed like a real option until her own Childe pitched the accusations into his Sire's face. Now there was little left to lose; only pride and family to gain. God, the young woman could not begin to ponder if perhaps she really had been _pawn du joir_, valuable until either her uses or arteries ran dry. Funny how some self-centered argument could bring the universe crashing down. One sad little quarrel, a corporate dynasty and a manipulative revolutionary – recipe for disaster. The month had been a portent of her ruin. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she shouldn't have tried.

Lily never wanted to hurt E. She hadn't wanted to hurt Ms. Woeburne, whose once-fond similarities were looking thinner and falser as these games went on. But last night made both wounds inevitable – and now, all that remained was to not fail Nines.

"_This isn't the bargain you thought it was, Slim, so it's your goddamn right to get that shackle off your neck. No pressure. No guilt. All it takes is a night of courage, kid… and then, you're free." _The Brujah's easy grin was like a song.

She had to do it.

Her bottom lip was split. She could taste blood; maybe it was the fear of that copper making both legs slip out from beneath her, falling before they could find solid ground again. Knees and palm heels skittered upon unused eating utensils. Serena's shoe toes gleaned angrily three feet away, callous, synthetic blue. _'She's going to kill me,' _dawned suddenly. Lily blindly fumbled for something to defend herself, finding steak knife.

"Touch that blade," Ms. Woeburne swore, "and I will cut your throat."

She could hear the painful sincerity of it, a warning and a fact. The neonate's fingers curled back. Lead-eaten metal glimmered dully upon the floor.

"I am so… so sorry," Lily choked. Saline dribbled down the bridge of her nose.

"Don't you _dare_," Serena scolded, the air through her diaphragm like a rattlesnake growl. Fangs sneered under overhead light. She could see the entire bare surface of those teeth. They were the same size, the same shape, extraordinarily sharper than hers. "I ought to hang and bleed you dry. You stupid, _stupid_ child! I should beat you within an inch of your pointless life. I should have you beheaded for this. And if I were a less practical person..."

Lily started sobbing in earnest, which seemed to distract the Ventrue, twist her temper. There was harder malice in the green eyes as they flicked and fixed. Her fists forced themselves unclenched; her nailtips were ragged on fledgling cheek and vitae. She bristled the odium out.

"If I had the abandon, I'd end you right now. But apparently I don't. So _get up_. Get out of my sight," she barked, finality to undead creatures, condemnation of the sort felt for old Benedicts. One zipped heel kicked a small burst of silverware in the direction of Lily's cringe. A butter knife bounced flatly off the thin-blood's jaw. "Belly-crawl back to your Anarchs. Rot with them when they finally rip themselves apart. I never want to see your face again."

Harris clacked as she stood. The effort hurt, and the limbs were all frozen-numb, sluggish to warm, full of reptile stuff. She limped across the kitchen on her twisted ankle. To pass Ms. Woeburne by that arch was a fearful, horrible thing – Ventrue rightness was a scalding, razor-backed machine; her mutt Caitiff body slumped, omega-like, hands twitching. Tears blurred everything. Blood and mucus leaked slowly from her blocked sinuses. The prints of Lily's soles left their marks on distressed carpet as they moved, one after the other, shoving sidewinder curves into the shag. Serena's glare never left the girl's back. Clear, furious eyes followed the thin-blood outside and into Empire hallway, a force-out, an exile into chintz and rich panels of luxury wall.

"If I ever see you again, you die," she swore, slammed the door, latched the lock, and stormed back into her apartment to pick up spoons.

"Horrid, horrid girl," Ms. Woeburne scathed to no one. Neat shoes were livid against kitchen linoleum, where Serena kneeled carefully upon the white rim of her pencil skirt, dumping handfuls of stainless steel into the dismantled drawer. Each bunch clattered loudly. It was a fine accompaniment to her rage. _'Awful, witless, whimpering little mutt. How did she expect to…? Why would anyone… Why must I keep all this junk around, anyway? Just in case I get the urge to take tea with the cows downstairs?' _It might've been the first manual labor Prince LaCroix's spoilt Childe underwent in Los Angeles. She grabbed rackfuls of cutlery with murderous enthusiasm, outraged, somehow thankful for a commonplace distraction. The thoughtlessness of domesticity kept at arm's length what she'd just seen and not-done within this cold, echoing home. Legal implications were still processing, as they were wont to do, but the sight of files in friendly hands wreaked havoc. It hurt. Badly.

_'Despicable brat. It's just as well. It's what I get for reaching my hand to a gutter rat. Anyway, there you are; I've had the end of this. Let her cater to the wolves, if it's what that bloody idiot wants so dearly; she deserves whatever she gets. I wash my hands.'  
_

Ms. Woeburne manhandled her utensil drawer back into its slot, and then she _did_ wash her hands - rinsed Harris's blood off all ten fingernails, patted them dry, then sat stiffly at the idle PC. There were still things that needed doing. It was an unfortunate necessity, conducting business after betrayal; believe it if you can, she'd nearly shot Joelle a brief, unexplained request for new housekeeping when up came something different - something unusual - something alarming.

Her flash drive – which normally blinked a lazy, miscellaneous yellow – was gone.

Serena was not entirely a callous bitch; she didn't want Lily dead, whoever dug that traitor's grave. She did not believe in passion revenge or coddling one's Beast. She could disengage. But more than much else at present: this un-callous, un-passioned, un-kind Camarilla corporal _really_ did not want to die, herself.

Ms. Woeburne's first instinct when life went haywire was to 9-1-1 Sebastian and explain her dilemma with the curt professionalism their lineage encouraged. Coups and failings aside, reporting back to headquarters for advice and safety from Elders was generally the wise course of action for young bluebloods. Some shrewd little facet of good sense whispered to the Childe, however; it hinted, in hushed tones and gruesome images, that running for her Sire's shadow this time would be a decidedly bad idea. Not merely for Lily's sake, who'd most certainly be gunned into a dust heap (whether the betrayed benefactor much cared at this point could be debated). Nuclear fallout never withdraws at one victim; collaterals often accrue the greatest toll. She had an oppressive hunch that, were this misstep revealed, Mr. LaCroix wouldn't stop at a light slap across his precious protégé's palm… not if her apparent charity-case let confidential information hit Nosferatu markets. Whatever affection might've existed between progenitor and progeny (and there probably wasn't too terrible much), Ms. Woeburne knew that the moment her presence became a liability, their Prince would dispatch his descendant swifter than blinking.

The illogical response to this highly logical fear was to tear after Harris and strip her skinless for that damn drive. But she didn't have the time. Serena barely had enough leeway to panic, it turned out, before a message lit up the agent's inbox.

**Sender: private  
Subject: (none)**

**310-502-9488. Fifteen minutes.**

Oh.

_Shit._

Feeling very, very much an iceberg, Serena picked up her cellular phone and dialed.

Two tolls. On the third, an answer came boxed in a dense, gutteral bass. _"Stay on the line,"_ it commanded; Ms. Woeburne could hear traffic rumbling through open backdrops. She almost recognized the voice, modern and urban, but could not quite stitch on a face. Not that specifics mattered greatly; Serena already knew who arranged this quaint mid-quarter blackmail, and mused that – Kuei-jin or vampire-hunters notwithstanding – her situation probably couldn't get a whole hell of a lot worse.

Animosity hummed when wires did not. Thank God she was too shell-shocked to blubber for mercy. A self-respecting Ventrue would sign up for stake-burning before being caught pleading anything from Rabble.

_Shit, shit, shit.  
_

'_Duplicitous whore. I should have torn out that jugular and wrapped it around her throat,' _Ms. Woeburne seethed, molars clacking, insufficient distraction from the rhythmic flexes of her jaw. If Sebastian ever traced this call, it would likely secure her future in a nice, comfy mantle-place urn. _'Spying for Nines Rodriguez? Side-splitting notion. Blood thinner than cheap liquor and that airheaded child expects she has any relevance whatsoever? I should have killed her! I should have killed her the moment I walked in.'_

Lips pressed into a tight bull's-eye, Serena listened for six more minutes. Instructions came; they were not diplomatic: _"Listen up. I'm not going to repeat this,"_ he boomed, something from a horror-flick. The man's return startled her powerfully, but briefly. It was an inevitable bump. _"Right now, as we're talking, what I've got in my left hand that could smear you into an ash tray. There is not a whole lot that would make my day more than blowing a Ventrue's fuck-ups over LA, either. So it's in your best interests to hear us out. You got me?"_ She said nothing – Ms. Woeburne's brand of rigidness was made of adrenaline and plainclothes, uncomplicated anger. The following pause, the lack of reaction, might have struck a little insecurity in that burly, dramatic voice. _"I'm going to lay things out nice and simple,"_ he pressed on. _"It's up to you how we're going to handle this. Understand?"_

The Foreman clenched, exhaled, and popped her tongue. Perhaps she was frightened out of inhibition, but inhibition remembered one thing: showing fear to a mad-dog Brujah was like plunging into piranhas with a hole in your head.

Serena M. Woeburne bristled.

"I understand perfectly," the Ventrue said, English ice cackling into a cola class. She had a spine like a musician's stand. "So I would hope – before you sent your minion to break into my home – you understand exactly who it is you are dealing with. And you understand _all_ of the consequences that implies."

There was another pause - audible, derailed confusion.

_"We know who you are, bitch,"_ it remarked, seeming insulted. _"We don't forget. Now pay attention. I got here a full record of-"_

"Oh, good lord. If you're going to blackmail someone over the telephone, at least have the courtesy to spare her all this pointless prick-brandishing and lay out your terms. I haven't got all night, and by the sound of things, neither do you." What the hell was she doing? A reckless, riotous strategy jangled about; hostility flicked from Ms. Woeburne's tongue, oil from an open pan. She spat the rancor out. It was almost beyond control - almost as much as the hate for their kind, for the hammering in her ribcage. Whatever madcap square of Serena's mind suggested she demean their threats seemed to know what it was doing, however, and so the woman buckled down and held on. "Soldier to soldier, let me pass on a bit of advice. Why don't you save us both the embarrassment of this situation and put your boss on the line, Sparky? I'll be waiting."

Silence, shuffling, and one burned middleman's swear. There was an exchange of words and grips upon the half-muffled receiver. _'Kinnell! Did that actually work?'_ Sebastian's Childe strained her eardrums, impatient for a death sentence. Another minute ticked itself out as criminal negotiations changed hands.

_"Just for the record,"_ Nines Rodriguez drawled into the receiver, and she could hear a grin across his face. _"_You _called _me_."_

Figured_._

Honestly, it really did. And yet Ms. Woeburne found she could not extinguish the immediate, organic reaction – a curdling down to her pit, a buck of the hands. She compressed both fists, failed to swallow that distinct split-second catch in her throat. Old pain ghosted quietly through healed joints. Pepper fizzed sharply within her abdomen. A repeater-round of insults shriveled up somewhere behind the Ventrue's gums. This awful night – and so many insidious, bone-cracking others – had been at the behest of one underhanded Baron, and now she stepped gingerly upon eggshells he'd thrown. Why she was still capable of mustering up genuine shock or even a general sense of astonishment was beyond her. Of _course_ it was Nines Rodriguez.

Fucking hell, indeed.

"Don't act clever. I was very clear with your henchman. What do you want from me?" Serena asked. She could not go tongue-tied, and ate the anxiety cottoning her throat, smacked assertiveness into gear. It was not a cakewalk. _'Don't overshare,'_ Ventrue ego reminded. Her mouth was drier than a beach baked at noon. _'He shouldn't have the satisfaction of your hate. Be a fortress. Mock him.'_

_"Information, mostly. I don't see you as being in a real great position to argue about it."_ And while he said so, you could just pick up the faintest mechanical whirl, several soft clicks. A mouse scroll. Indignity flared, brash and flammable; she hurriedly stomped it out. There is no use growing hysterical over what you already know. "_Interesting stuff to leave lying around, Woeburne. Let me see what I got. Here's something: 'Human Iconolatry in Pre-Colonial Ghana.' Mouthful. You write this yourself?"  
_

Serena cat-spat, jeered nastily through her front teeth. She wasn't certain if the contempt was for his attitude or these slow, roundabout teases at extortion. "I'm a plagiarist. You've ruined me. My academic career is over. Is that all you-"

_"Nope, you didn't write it. Says right here: 'Anna Scott, Stanford University.' That's real cute name. Sure I'd recognize a name that cute if I heard it before. Say, oh, maybe from this ghoul we got on First Street in Trespass and Larceny." _There it was. That's their thorn to stick. Woeburne swore, colorfully, over such a trifling thing to be pinned beneath; she sunk a palm into her collarbone to keep the menace from whooshing out. Each nail left a faint pale line. _'Don't stop there; let's have it all, then, you son-of-a-bitch.' _

"Maybe so," she conceded, wickedly cordial, a vile chirp.

Brujah might taunt, posture, swagger and cajole. But they cannot resist gagging a Ventrue when they've got her leash. It is too tempting, too petty, a consolation prize. He cut: _"Anna's in a shitload of trouble. I wonder what our Prince would say if he knew you let a thin-blood wreck his history trade. _Really _wonder what Isaac would think about LaCroix's file clerk jacking occult items off his star ghoul. My guess is: so much for that peace agreement."_ Serena was – without a shadow of doubt – clinically good-and-dead. But she swore her blood pressure rose at his last lazy observation, coercion made clear through a sidelong sigh. _"I pity the guy who makes this phone call. 'Course, if you'd rather the details stayed between you and me, I'm fine with that. Nobody else has to know about Anna Scott."_

Ms. Woeburne suffocated an inward _'fuck.' _She chewed her bottom lip for the next sixty-three seconds.

_"Hello,"_ Nines asked.

Cornered to the wall, a worthy corporal can still force herself to steel. "I'm listening," she snapped, forearms at both sides. Where other women might've paced, Sebastian's Childe stood martial-straight in the center of her upturned living room. The wine-bottle shade of her stare was stoic and unblinking. Her fingernails, stubbornly maroon, readjusted lean black frames.

_"I sure as hell hope so. Don't spook off, Princess. This is an easy one."_ Ms. Woeburne waited. She felt the burn down to her marrow. She could not imagine clandestine orders from an Anarch gang lord would include anything remotely legal, tasteful or easy. _"I just need your help with a little housecleaning."_

"Don't you have Lily for that?" It lashed out before she could even think about biting back. Nines's chuckle was brutal.

_"I like you, London. You're all right."_

"I am thrilled." Ms. Woeburne's shoe tip began to metronome itself against the floorboards. Her patience for these cruel notions of charm was wearing precariously, self-destructively thin.

_"Here I thought you'd hold a-"_

"What in the hell do you want?" she demanded, shoulders aching where they sat in their sockets. A polished Foreman was not about to look bona fide nervous – not if she could help it – and the vindiction of pride shushed fear, _but_. But was an always-tactic, a contrarian's key. _'But who has the constitution for this nonsense?'_

Rodriguez went on: _"Right down to business, then. We'll be brief, Woeburne. I got a feeling you're as sick of the name de Luca as I am. But what about these names?: Andi Michaels and Lawrence Figueroa. Those are the two kids he murdered in Long Beach,"_ Nines informed her, a bit of knowledge that rapidly cooled that loathsome, affable burr. _"They were also the Childer of a pretty good friend of mine. Now, I couldn't prove if LaCroix called that hit or not – frankly, I'm past caring. What matters at this point is how an LA bottom-feeder got a bead on them in the first place. You and me don't have the best history on that topic, I'm aware. But put that on the back-burner for a minute. Let me hash it out for you..."_ The Brujah _hmm_ed. _"I've been playing this game long enough to know when to bury a hatchet, and if there's a rat in my den. I got a shovel and I got a rat. So I thought about you. And I'd appreciate it very much, Serena Woeburne, if you'd figure out who that rat is."_

"And how do you expect I will be able to do that?" she snipped, one arm crossing defensively over her hips.

_"I don't care what you have to do. If you need me to write it out for you at this point, Cam, you genuinely are fucked. I know you're in a position to get me the evidence I need,"_ the Anarch observed. Not as though Ms. Woeburne actually hoped to weasel out of it; after that truck incident and narrow escape, there wasn't much chance for breathing space, or for negotiations like these. _"And you know that I do not have a reputation for being patient. You have three days."_ A meaningful, menacing intermission. _"Then you meet me at a secure location I provide at that time. Clear enough? Or do you want me to go over it again so you can take notes?"_

Serena swallowed another protest – thick, throaty and sour. Her palms began to throb. "A secure location you provide. Is that a joke, Mr. Rodriguez?"

_"Do you hear me laughing?"_

"No, I don't. But I do know there is no way you're being serious with me. Because what you're asking isn't possible. _Isn't_ possible; do you understand? I'm not bouncing into a death trap with a bow on my neck," he was snootily notified. Her eyebrows hiked as though they held some sort of higher ground. "If you're going to do this, do it the right way. Suggest a drop, and I will make it. But anything else is out of the question. I don't like excess dramatics. And I am not meeting you again."

_"Princess…"_ Rodriguez's voice sunk like a microburst – sudden humidity and a keen bully. _"I've got some bad news for you. If I wanted you dead, I'd have Skelter, here, drive across town and bust the shit out of your stuck-up Ventrue ass right now. Listen carefully. You're going to man up, make the appointment, and deliver what I ask or you are in for a _world_ of things you won't like. That's my ultimatum, bitch, and it's final."_ Pause – brief, inflated and disorienting. Woeburne's canines ground themselves into the palate of her inner cheek.

_"Three days,"_ he repeated, and you could hear the smile through his teeth. The Foreman did not breathe or echo yes. She stood still. She felt sickened. _"Sweet dreams, Cam."_

_Click._

And Serena was deserted in her apartment – dead phone in one hand, blood drops on the floor, computer radiating empty blue.


	32. The Hatchet

**The Hatchet**

A revelation occurred to Sebastian LaCroix's punctual Childe over the course of her spoiled weekend: three days really wasn't a whole hell of a lot of time.

It seemed like fair wiggle-room at first. Disregarding how thumb-pinned a furious Ms. Woeburne felt about her forced contract, seventy-two hours was generous movement range for Camarilla soldiers. _'Give me a decent push and a side of luck, I might just head this off with an evening to spare. Well, good. Good riddance. I've been falling behind on Wolff, anyway.'_ It was a frightening arrangement, to be sure – one the Foreman couldn't brood on overmuch about without sparking her wrist tremors – but rarely did Jyhadists feel guilty for foiling double-agents. She doubted it qualified as genuine crime.

Suffice to say, it had not occurred to the Ventrue that this uncomfortable task might actually prove difficult. Worse, Ms. Woeburne couldn't puzzle out why some other clerk had taken considerable trouble secreting away one Free-State rogue's identity. She skimmed through Sebastian's contact lists, but they were hardly elucidating; she sniffed out vague hints at a Gangrel informant, but his name was consistently blacked-out. There appeared to be nothing in databases or telephone morgues. She was almost frustrated to the point of dropping this terror and simply asking Mr. LaCroix directly. Her Sire wouldn't be pleased with blackmail, no doubt, but it was hard to imagine he'd throw terrible fits over breaking the cover of some Anarch mole.

Well, maybe not. There was still that niggling fear their unappeasable Prince might have his Childe executed simply on the principle of being a trusting incompetent. _'Beheaded by my own maker? No, no; that won't do. Not at all.'_ Serena wouldn't indulge the gruesome possibility; it tasted far too much like wasted love. Sebastian could hardly keep the Hendon bills in order – how would he manage without a quiet, studious, diligent second to wind the slack rope left behind? _'Ah, yes. Deception purely out of a greater sense of duty.' _Convenient to her, surely, but better for both their sakes to keep this little screw-up snugly under wraps.

'_Keep telling yourself that, cherry pie,'_ the vampire's cynicism grumbled. Her self-denial told it to shut the hell up while sharp fingers went about typing a short, professional plea.

**Sender: S. Woeburne  
Subject: Regarding Tuesday**

**Please be Advised:**

**While my investigation is underway, I regret to inform you that I cannot close as scheduled. What little I have procured seems to confirm your suspicions. Collecting evidence pertaining to said suspicions will require a security bypass, however. As you might guess, this is a delicate process and cannot be bull-rushed. I simply need more time.**

**-W**

And the Brujah's reply?:

**Sender: private  
Subject: RE: Regarding Tuesday**

**No. Get it done, London.**

Lovely.

Tuesday it was, then. There'd be little use arguing tact or science with communists, something any company politician could testify to. Still, it did rather leave her in the lurch… a dangerous lurch, at that._ 'What I wouldn't give for a few secretaries of my own. Ought to suggest this to Sebastian sometime when I'm not presently being blackmailed.' _Some time, indeed; the Ventrue, bistre bangs choppy across her brow, blew a hassled puff of air. She slumped. She glared at the computer clock. It was Sunday; precisely, it was half-past three o'clock in the AM. _'Well, Woeburne. One hell of a cute mess you've gotten us into,' _her pessimism sighed. _'How on Earth are you dodging this bullet?'_

She needed help. Fast.

While her clearance was higher than most (particularly when it came to Mr. LaCroix's private files), even Serena couldn't exactly skip merrily into Venture Tower and waltz out with sheaves of classified transcripts under one arm. That ridiculous stunt was bound to serve up one express decapitation. Though Ms. Woeburne would've almost enjoyed seeing Joelle try to stop her, she'd be markedly less thrilled facing down Sebastian's primate-jowled Sheriff. What a local show it'd make when the Prince's Childe went sailing through his skyscraper window and towards her Final Death. Whatever that entailed. _'No. Definitely not my first choice.'_

So the question before her: who might provide the name of a Gangrel shark without mentioning Serena's peculiar interest to their superior? Who would even have access to that information? Far as Ms. Woeburne knew, she herself carried more keycards and passwords to Sebastian's confidential rooms than any other Kindred in this sea-foam city. She had no real way of proving the hunch, of course, but couldn't imagine her conniving Sire trusting anyone beyond his straight-faced and vitae-bound progeny. Camarilla rank-scalers cannot often stand so close to a monarch's underbelly and not dagger his busy heart. Hell, Lily couldn't even dust _her_ furniture without sticking ten grubby fingers into the Jyhad blood-pie. _'Ignorant wretch,'_ Serena raged quietly, not yet prepared to forgive that wide-eyed fledgling. It didn't bear worrying too much over Harris's idiocy, however. Her betrayal still burned too hotly in Ms. Woeburne's veins.

Who to contact, then? The operative chewed on a loose ballpoint cap, mulling over her sticky situation. Point-A was a long way from Point-B. It had all devolved into a bloody headache, bluntly, but defeat was not in the nature of Ventrue-Childer; neither was hazarding the possibility they may actually have run out of viable options. No throwing in her towel yet.

Springing this lock would require a few tweaks to her usual business criteria. Generally Serena preferred to maneuver remotely – had a growing notebook of reliable, stable work relationships within Venture for messier traps – but Foundation affiliation meant none of these names were helpful now. One could always expand their bases, however. And Foremen knew how to adapt. So the question was not about corporate loyalties, but rather one of personal interests; it asked which tender little leaf in LA's grapevine might possess the strange initiative to dangle his or her toes in both puddles? – ice-cold Camarilla and scalding Free-State, all at once. Who could conceivably spin out their existence so double-brained?

The name Jeanette Voerman came to mind.

Serena had met this woman only once (at Therese Voerman's bi-monthly social forum, an event to which the pigtailed interloper had not even been invited), and condescended to speak with her very briefly: "yes; hello; glad to meet you." No surprise; promiscuity and faked stupidity offended industrious purebloods, perhaps more than they ought. Still, she couldn't quite claim to _prefer_ the elder sister – not exactly – for Santa Monica's former Baron was a stunted prospect, a blend of self-interested malice and control-freak professionalism. Ambition propelled her, consumed that withering suburb. The loyalties of such a person meant nothing no matter whose banner or titles she took. On an opposite pole, Jeanette was a slavering, heat-mad dog - but the smaller sibling did not cloak her filth behind painted smiles. Different lifestyles, different sins – one transparent and one cloistered with formalities – that amounted to a very perilous county. Naturally, you'd be a fool to trust either Voerman twin not to rip you skinless if given the chance. But a prudent Ms. Woeburne would rather risk showing this regrettable entanglement to someone who cared nothing for Kindred politics... at least, not beyond foiling her doppelganger. And, even if that ambivalence was not a certain thing, this was: such a creature had no relationship with Mr. LaCroix.

Well. Jeanette Voerman it was, then. Serena picked up her cell, ran a quick directory search, and dialed the hopping little Santa Monican club. _'This is bound to at least be a lively waste of my time, if nothing else…'_

It was good fortune, fate, or simple coincidence: an unmistakable voice picked up. _"Hello, duckling!"_ it said, a terrible fit for business greetings, some schoolgirl's bubbly purr. The Ventrue tightened unhappily. _"You've got The Asylum – lucky you! Now tell what's on your mind, and don't be shy." _Miles apart, you could hear the curve of teeth; every 's' simpered, adders in a wicker basket. Synthesizer throbbed dully in the backdrop. Ms. Woeburne felt aversion crackle up, but shuffled the discomfort away. She had exactly no time for squeamish distastes. There was even less time to be distracted by juvenile teasing, blonde and macabre, festering sexuality. Her nails pinched the telephone.

'_Be pleasant,' _she advised herself; it was a clapped palm over prudishness. _'You come with intrigue. The young cannot resist that smell. Flash your cards; dangle your bait; tempt her.'_

Why not? The Prince's dour puppet had already been a last-minute spy, secretary, stunt-driver/cat-burglar and a political chip over these past several weeks. She might as well add fisherman to her résumé. "Funny you should mention that," the Foreman began, cheerfulness unmeant, a cricket in her throat. Propositions, an enticing pause. The lure bobbed. "As a matter of fact, Ms. Voerman, there's a great deal on my mind, and I think you might be able to help me. This is Serena Woeburne with the LaCroix Foundation. We've met a time or two; you'll remember me, I hope?"

Jeanette circled the chum like a white-tip. She tittered approval. _'Predictable, frivolous'_ – it was all the somber ancilla had_. "Oh, kitten, don't be completely ridiculous. Of course I know who you are; you're His Excellency's go-to-girl. How could anyone forget you? That cute walk and that cuter accent."_ Sebastian's Childe knew her teeth gritted, and tried bearing a flattered smile, afraid anger would show. Being patronized by such a creature burned. _ Cute walk_. Cute walk...? "_So, m'love,"_ the Other continued; a wink smacked through her shitty imitation slang_. "Whatever do you need from little old me? Do tell, sugar-puss. I'm all aquiver with anticipation."_

"I wouldn't want to impose on your time," Woeburne offered graciously. It agonized her, appealing to a hellcat's fetishes, but personal edges were an important facet of Jyhad. And honestly, compared to other scenarios (such as spitting excuses in Free-State interrogations), this was an easy card to cast. Anarchs took heads. If the bint who held a getaway ticket between her manicure fancied accents and flirting - if it meant success - she should swallow down snicker and "cute walk," play it up, and be thankful. "Are you very busy tomorrow night? I have a few questions, and I'd prefer, if we could, to meet in person. Nothing dodgy or dangerous, I promise. They're harmless questions. Relatively speaking."

_"Right now, nothing but Strawberry Fields would tickle me more. Meet me at the Surfside six minutes after midnight?"_ she asked; it was glee and a joke all rolled together. _'God,'_ Ms. Woeburne scoffed, feeling repulsed. _'Talking to Rodriguez's lapdogs was half-less painful.'_

"That's the throwback diner on Washington Street, yes?" Something told the woman she ought to double-check.

And it was smart foresight she did, for Voerman heaved a sing-song sigh. _"Oh, I guess – if you want to be boring about it. Won't wear my itty-bitty-teeny-weeny, then. Don't want to cause a stir in such prestigious company."_ A witch-cackle giggle. Such prestigious company daydreamed of slapping Therese's batty counterpart in her violent red smirk. _"Sad to say, cupcake, but I better scamper off before Queen Victoria catches us running up her phone bill. It's a recession, and all. But trust me when I say you can count on our arrangements; I never dip on a friend in need, especially not important ones. So I'll talk at your sweet face soon, Beckham. Ta-ta," _she whistled, blew a squeaky kiss, twisting the cable cord before clicking it down.

Serena had known well enough that the cotton-candy creature was a sex addict; go figure she'd turn out to be an Anglophile, on top of that. _'What a wailing mess,'_ Woeburne snorted, wearily shaking her head. _'Ah, well. So much the better for me.' _Well. _'So long as I'm not coerced into another Wilhelm episode, anyway.'_ She was still bleaching the Old Spice out of her Casual Friday khakis. The young Ventrue had been fond of them, and took this quite sorely.

His Excellency's Go-To-Girl flipped her cell onto the desk, leant back, and proceeded with Operation Raging Migraine. Delightful how her hitherto remote life had launched from scurrying gofer work to a daytime television series. _Crime drama_. The summary was mocking and perfect.

Tongue lodged firmly in-cheek, Serena groaned, and resigned herself into the satire.

* * *

**Episode 7/8: SURFSIDE RENDEZVOUS  
Synopsis:**_** In Which Agent Woeburne Schedules a Furtive Meeting with Santa Monica Nightclub Proprietor and Vampiric Deviant Jeanette Voerman.  
**_**Rated:**_** R (Ridiculous, Racy, Reckless)  
**_**Running Time:**_** Seventy-Five Minutes too Long**_

Jeanette kept Serena biting her nails for one full hour before she slunk into the damn restaurant.

"Cheerio, kitty-cat!" Voerman peeped as though there were nothing out of the ordinary about meeting at midnight. She was all chipper smiles and bouncing yellow - the usual for a galloping girl that teetered somewhere between half-oblivious and half-insidious. Neon green lingerie glared through her button-down, pale midriff bare as a newborn's unhardened skull. Ms. Woeburne instantly felt repugnance. True to the vampire's word, though, she'd arrived alone and what apparently passed as 'incognito.' Jeanette swung her knitted shoulder-bag onto their greasy booth and plopped down across from the Ventrue, wearing pleated denim and a spacey grin. "Sorry I'm late, little sparrow. Practically had to sneak away from Mother Chastity… you know how that is, don't you? Nice jacket. I love your belt," she cooed, silver sparkling eerily in each eye, ambition in the blue and the jade. Serena could not tell them between envy and cunning, suddenly aware of her insides. It felt like a good place to dig a knife. She twisted to guard her abdomen.

"It's no trouble," the Foreman lied, ignoring distractions and tugging straight the irritated set of her lips. She reached out to boldly shake Voerman's hand. Ms. Woeburne imagined they were quite the nastily strange contrast, sitting there on circus-red benches: dark suit and stripper fallen out of Catholic school. Here's hoping some patrolman didn't saunter in and try to collar the former for soliciting a prostitute. _That_ would truly make this comedy of errors complete. "Thank you for meeting me on such short notice. It must have been an inconvenience, and I certainly appreciate it. California has me in a bind tonight. And unfortunately, it has nothing to do with my belt."

Her outstretched palm was blinked at. That ruby mouth parted like ripped satin. "You are so adorable!" the vampire squealed, snatching Serena's icy fingers and pumping them vigorously. "Of course I wouldn't leave you swinging out in the cold, peaches. I'm a philanthropist," she declared. Woeburne battered down another pounding urge to wallop the junior upside her breathy hot air balloon of a head. "So what can I do for you, exactly? Somehow I don't think you're interested in my advertised area of expertise."

"What I need couldn't be discussed over a phone," or so she murmured, leaning in over the barren countertop. Eager to play big-business espionage, Jeanette pushed aside two untouched water glasses and spread both elbows boyishly across their table. Prince LaCroix's Childe reeled her in like a trout. "Before we get into specifics, I should warn you. The favor I'm about to ask is simple – all I want is a single name – but I'm afraid your sister might not approve. There it is. I don't plan on using this information for ill, of course; I don't plan on sharing it, at all; but its release could be damaging to Therese's political aspirations. Embarrassing, specifically. I'd wager that the Camarilla would frown upon her involvement in such a thing. Do you understand what I'm saying, Ms. Voerman?" Serena wondered needlessly. She could see wickedness curling its toes behind the young lady's predatory gaze – a promise of mischief in two tones. They were opportunists in Santa Monica. Ms. Woeburne pressed both palms flat against the varnished wood, hushed enough to excite, manufacturing intrigue. "I hope this isn't too much of an imposition, but I really had nowhere else to turn."

"Buttercup," Jeanette announced, and her hands clapped down on Serena's knuckles with flat, decisive endorsement. "I got a feeling you and I are about to become the best of friends."

They separated awkwardly as a waitress shimmied by, shooting both women a critical, disapproving look.

By the time she vanished from earshot, Ms. Woeburne had readied up a healthy dose of sweet-talk. "I hear you know the West Coast better than most anyone these nights," the Ventrue said, studying her clean, square fingernails. While this scrap of praise was certainly advantageous to her cause, it was also not untrue. "Seeing as how I'm a new arrival, you were the only one I could appeal to for some sincere opinions. Politics are necessary evil but they ruin everything." _Frivolity_. Serena hated how fickle she sounded; mimicking coquetry, being flighty, was not espionage our stern agent enjoyed. The golden girl was agreeing with her, though, short attention span at full-alert. This had to be a success. "Here's my issue. I'm trying to locate an Anarch Gangrel of a certain disposition. Just for conversation; his particular skill sets could be of no small use to me personally. Being who I am, though – as I'm sure you'd imagine – actually finding him has been hell. You've been versatile enough to avoid pigeonholing yourself. Might you give me a tip?"

"Well, you're going to have to give me a little more to go off than _that_, jelly bean. Gangrel are a Free-State staple around here."

"And herein we have the problem," Woeburne sighed, grimacing a bit. "All I really know about him is clan, faction, and that he's probably associated in some way with their den in Long Beach. We suspect he's on the fence between our local branch and Nines Rodriguez's people. You can imagine that isn't making many of us happy on either end of the field."

Voerman's razor-thin brows perked up her forehead. "Nines Rodriguez? Kitten, you _are_ in deep. If you're tiptoeing around Brujah McStudly in all this drama, you best watch your dainty behind. He's not what they say. And I don't think you're his type."

"Are you?" Serena asked before stopping herself, brightening at that ridiculous proposition. Negotiations waited, but she couldn't deny the benefits of uncovering a sordid liaison between Jeanette and her neighborhood arch nemesis. Any chance to turn the blackmail around was worth taking. _'This woman really does shag everything on two legs…'_

Her answer was a chin flopped into a palm heel and one ambivalent sigh. "Sorry to disappoint you, ducky," breezed through Voerman's nose. She traced bored loops around a flimsy cork coaster. "Tidy as that'd be for your people, I'm sure, it wasn't meant to be. Thinks he's too good to haggle with me, apparently. His loss. Barons wash in and out with the tide around these parts. Brujah, too. Which, on another note, is why I'm about to make your night. Ya' see-" Ms. Woeburne saw. "Gangrel are a funny breed. The country mice and city rats all like to lick their wounds alone, poppet. But when I'm in town, and I usually am, it's awfully hard for loners to resist a dose of TLC. That's my calling card, sweetie. And wait 'til you hear this: I went on a beachfront date 'round one month ago with a nice young ankle-biter flown in from down south. There was still sand in his toes, cuddlebug. Now, I don't know how guilty his conscience was, but I do know he came panting in from - you guessed it, honeybee - Long Beach."

"A month ago?" (Shortly after the de Luca assassinations, then.) "It has to be him," Serena decided, quite insistent about it, but no less committed. She straightened up, rejuvenated. Their ugly meeting hadn't been a breakneck dash up a one-way street, after all! Hope tingled the vampire's fingers, peppermint relief dancing down her throat. Perhaps she really would slide out of this disaster with life, career and a vague sense of stateliness intact. "All I need is a name, and you've solved my biggest problem."

"Not so fast. We're going to be friends now – and that means tit-for-tat, snicklefritz. If I'm going to give you my secret, you better first give me one of yours."

"Fair enough," the Foreman reasoned. Frankly, she was three-fourths ready to hop headlong into bed with the grapefruit-perfumed nut if it meant receiving that data; trading playground confessions was a far cry more tolerable. Hush-hush insults were easy games; a foxish grin donned on Woeburne when the perfect tidbit did: harmless, offensive, and well-suited for a vindictive sibling. "You might be interested in knowing this. I'm sure it's already occurred to you that Mr. LaCroix plans on interviewing your sister for a position at his cabinet, yes? This is true enough, and she'd be glad to know the arrangement isn't likely to change. But she might be less glad, I wager," the Ventrue noted, fingers lacing, "if she could hear how he speaks of her privately. Office aside, the Prince is not very fond of Therese. Not very fond at all."

"How _'not fond at all'_…?" The younger Voerman was currently watching Serena with a poorly-veiled twinkle of pleasure.

"Hates her, I'm afraid. He has said she is a sycophant and a sniveler. 'Unimaginative ambitions, mediocre force,' I believe were his words. And – the last time I attended a meeting involving the two of them, which was, so you're aware, last week – Mr. LaCroix remarked afterwards that if she ever called him 'Sebastian' again, he'd have her pitched out the picture window."

Jeanette stared at Serena a few moments, grinned her made-up face into a crescent moon, and grabbed the woman's left wrist. Bangles rattled against Serena's small steel watch. Nails like cake sprinkles poked cool skin. "The man you're looking for is Naim Carroll," she whispered into Ms. Woeburne's keen ear, "and I think he's staying up near Bakersfield."

_Naim Carroll._

"You," the operative said, and clasped her free hand atop their conspiratorial pile of fingers, "are an angel."

Voerman clucked her tongue, mismatched eyes rolling, waving away the compliment casually as a debutante. There was an amused, welcoming flutter of false eyelashes. She swept her crocheted carrier off their tabletop, snickering. "Tell me something I don't know! But it's all icing, kitten-face. Don't get your undoubtedly cute panties in a bunch."

"Erm. No. But I am grateful," Woeburne assured – a genuine sentiment, a nervous smile, an empty gesture that no Santa Monican sister would ever take. "If you ever need space downtown, don't hesitate to ask. My official power is limited, but I do have a certain amount of influence…"

But she wasn't able to finish topping the pot. Jeanette sabotaged Serena's goodbye handshake and pulled her into a hug instead, arms wrapping around board-stiff Camarilla shoulders. "Don't be silly, girlfriend! No need to start drafting IOUs. That's not my style." And it wasn't - because the blonde gave her one last nippy, affectionate squeeze before cantering off, a gazelle in body, a candy personality. She smelled like Bombay blood mixed with grape soda. "Just let's you and me go shopping sometime."

Shopping for a spy's name? Jyhad had never come so cheap.

* * *

**Episode 7/9: UNFRIENDLY EXCHANGE  
Synopsis:**_** In Which Successful Agent Woeburne Meets with Smug Ex-Baron to Reclaim Files, Dignity, and Continued Job Security.  
**_**Rated:**_** R  
**_**Running Time:**_** Fast as Fucking Hell**_

Serena pulled into _Confession_'s overbooked parking lot, powered-down the Audi, walked three blocks west and forked into a horror movie alleyway where Nines Rodriguez was already waiting for her.

She found the catalyst of her bad night leant up against a brick building, hands fisted in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched forward. Antagonism radiated from him in anonymous shades of black. The Brujah checklist seemed complete: dark, unkempt hair; unsociable expression on an unshaven face; plenty of leeway for hidden switchblades and all this topped off by a general sense of ill-repute. Silver eyes very nonchalantly did not notice her. The man's insouciance did not fool Camarilla perception one bit, however; no matter how ambivalent an ex-Baron might look, _she_ knew that _he_ knew she was there.

'_Stereotype,'_ the Ventrue thought, adjusted her blazer, and soldiered up for unseemly business.

Before engaging Rodriguez, Ms. Woeburne took a quick, wise inventory of his chosen meeting place. Discount office suites surrounded this gloomy little byway; they'd all been locked tight until the morning commute, leaving dim security bulbs to glare down trashbins, weedy sidewalk and rusted fire escapes. Shatterproof glass gleaned in the insufficient light. Both visible exits were cordoned off by twelve-foot chain-link; gin bottles scattered asphalt; far-spread streetlamps looked only as far as the claustrophobic, graffiti-covered concrete walls. _'Prime spot for a little evening homicide,' _sprinted across her mind before the spooked Ventrue could stop it. _'Predictable. Perhaps this really is about luring me into a convenient hole - hiding my ashes. Excellent. Fantastic.'_ Much as Serena would've liked to deny these gristly possibilities, assassination seemed terribly, painfully viable. _'Hell, it's what I would do,'_ was a sentiment she couldn't help but admit.

Well. Only one sensible way to deal with that.

Ms. Woeburne stepped into the lane, walked as close as she dared, and pointed a gun about two feet away from Nines Rodriguez's nose.

Attention got.

"Good news and bad news. The good news is that I've found your traitor," Serena informed him, a frightfully insolent hello for blackmail victims, cocking her head at the Anarch's vacant, stupid look. Momentum kept her upright and unafraid. Gusto saved her voice. The six millimeter saved her from any offhand assaults. She was fully aware how overblown this sort of confidence was, Kahr light, finger tightening perceptibly over the trigger. Brash, yes. Brazen, yes. Foolish – partially. Marching in to meet warlords with a fierce face was reckless, but if watching courtroom politics had taught Woeburne one thing, it was the importance of control. Princes did not, of course, regularly waltz into street-side barters, but aggression was in assembly halls or galleries – it shone from cool visages and erect chins, from stonewalling detractors who wanted to look down upon you. Sebastian did not permit condescension. Likewise, first moves and the appearance of upper-hands kept his bristling protégé whole this night. Experience is valuable; but, as with snickering Primogen, it is the impetus of action that matters when facing down bigger monsters than yourself.

"The bad news," Ms. Woeburne said. She needn't finish. She tilted the weight of pistol in her hand.

It was at least half a game of appearances. This is the great joke of Jyhad, where you can never tell where the posturing ends and the bluff begins. Appearances were generally compensating for weak spots, though, and little inconsistencies that could collapse a ruse. In her hard-lined case, the weakness was fear. After torture sessions, orchestrated betrayals and other iniquitous schemes, she was – grudgingly, but unavoidably – mortified by the prospect of knife glow in basement drains. Reason enough for a dramatic entrance. There could be no tip-toeing in like a subservient, trembling little fledgling fallen off her keeper's petticoat. Not here. Serena had flung herself into the bear pit because it was the only way. Adrenaline iced over in a most unpleasant manner. _Impetus_ kept out the fear. Without the brass mask of authority and proud poise, two dearly-kept defenses, LaCroix's Childe might have started shaking – from rage or cowardice, she did not want to say.

Jumping him with a handgun had been wonderful iodine for hurt nerve, however. Color seemed to bleach out of imprecisely blue eyes. He blinked at the handgun for a few moments before acknowledging exactly what its owner had said.

The weapon was clearly loaded; you could hear bullet heaviness clink. The Ventrue was not compromising. A stitch had further sobered that already impossibly sober expression; a drop in the wind made modest hands seem grave. Her bob-cut didn't bounce in the night air. Her glasses sat there. Her sleeves were cuffed, neatly rolled.

"You want to get that six out of my face?" the Brujah asked, but being flippant was a challenge staring down your enemy's barrel. She could have thought of a cleverer thing to say.

"No, I quite like it where it is. I told you this was poor form. You didn't listen to reason, so you can tolerate the consequences; though it doesn't seem you have any choice in that matter."

"And to think she looked like an uptown girl," Nines remarked. Ms. Woeburne was not sure, from the Anarch's thoughtful tone, whether he was dismissing or approving of their current predicament. This offended her to no end.

Serena's response to being belittled was loudly clicking back the hammer. A ghost of mortal recognition knotted behind her adversary's arrogant stare. She logged this as a victory; even if it he won their clash, one didn't often turn up quicker on the draw than a skulking Rodriguez with a bad ultimatum. "Do you know: it was almost a week before I could hold a pen properly. Same hand, in fact. But it seems to have healed well enough," Woeburne observed of herself. The way streetlight glinted off his unpolished rings wrought a phantom pain through her cheekbones. She tried to look casual, but aced angry with a mighty aplomb. "I am here to do business. But let's be clear. I am unhappy. I am not in a mood to jump through any more hoops. And I strongly advise against giving me precedent to pull this trigger."

"I can give you a pretty damn good reason not to, I think. Got something on your collar," the Brujah noted. Confusion edged in on the wild superiority. Her stare, venin, narrowed; her aim never faltered a centimeter; it flicked down.

There was a little red laser dot hovering smack-dab at the crest of Ms. Woeburne's cleavage, roughly the size of a chickenpock.

Kent-Alan leaned out of an overhead window with his rifle on the pane, and tossed Serena a wave.

"On second thought." The Kahr slackened awkwardly. Her mouth shifted. An unfortunate standoff; the Toreador might've been able to plug a smart bullet straight through Serena's chest from his perch, but not before she'd paint crumbling walls with Nines Rodriguez's brain. "It would be a little excessive to kill one another when I've already gone through the trouble of your witch-hunt. You've brought what you promised, I assume?"

"You'll get it when I get my name."

Ms. Woeburne's free hand dipped into her suit top and flipped out a small electronic. It was an MP3 device – fragile, thin and finger-size – the most innocuous recorder she'd found. Tape left sticky prints and shirt lint on the plastic. If Jeanette Voerman had squashed a few inches tighter during their gawky embrace, or heard the tinny sample seconds Serena played for proof, she might just reconsider that shopping spree.

"Naim Carroll is your man," the Foreman assured him. "And no, I'm not mistaken. If you'd like to waste time listening to the full testimony, feel free. It's there and it's valid. Now I trust you will return my item?"

If this disclosure startled him, Baron LA did not show it. Nines tilted the suggestion about in his mind's eye, let her anxiety stew, then flicked from his jean pocket a wonderfully familiar shape. Only a flash-drive; powerful emotion. Ms. Woeburne had a time of it not simply lunging forward and snatching the thing. A loaded automatic boring at her torso did, however, dampen this urge.

"Good work, Cam. I take it back; you're not as useless as you look." He tossed the prize up. Serena juggled her own evidence for a moment; only morons lowered pistols for a twenty-dollar data cache. She barely managed to hook it on her fingertip before the stress of these past three nights plunged into a puddle.

"And I know you haven't copied any sensitive information how, precisely?" the woman demanded, gripping hard around that precious piece of nothing, her frown a personal clause. He stuck out his hand for her payment. She refused, set the recorder down, and backed several steps away to let him take it. Her gun itched. The Anarch stayed put.

"Guess you're just gonna have to take my word for it." Rodriguez almost grinned at her, but rethought it. The lazy confrontational style scrambled with a coarser, halfway threatening look. Her recorder glistened impotently on the pavement. The inaccuracy of his eye color annoyed Ms. Woeburne. "Same way I know you're not trying to pull another fast one, Scott. I've dealt with your people and been burned before. But know this. If on the off-chance I _do_ find out you fingered an innocent man – you can work out what happens, right?"

The cringe hit her face like shotgun recoil. Serena's damned sarcasm couldn't help itself. "Yes, believe, I have worked this out," she sighed, the dread from an old interrogator glossed over by at least eight generations of snobbery. (Her propensity for snideness generally left the young agent flabbergasted to have emerged from these situations alive. Oh, well. Everyone nursed their own downfalls; Prince-Childer might suffer an incurable case of The Wisecracks.) "You send 'Skelter, here, to dive across town and bust the shit out of my Ventrue ass.' We've established that."

"Actually, they call me Playboy," the Toreador shouted happily down from his sniper post. He fired a blank in the form of one meaningless wink. "But it's just 'Kent' to you, lovely."

Ms. Woeburne shot back a revolted, deadpan _ugh_.

"Let me make the rest of this easy, Cam," Rodriguez proffered, no leeway for argument, no gallantry about it. Serena could have socked him right in the mouth. "I'm about to tell you exactly what you're going to do. You're going to lower your right hand, put the gun back in your purse, and turn around. Then you're going to walk straight out of here like a stroll down Santa Monica Pier. Keep upright and don't make any sudden moves. Once you cross the street, you're free to do as you please. Nothing complicated about this. You just do what I said, and you'll be pushing papers back in Venture before you know it. But you even swing your chin 'round back before then, and K-Al will blow your pretty face all over West Fifth. Got it?"

"Yeah, sorry about that," Playboy called, wincing behind his sights. Nines's gaze was unnervingly conversational. He didn't flinch.

"All right," the Ventrue cooperated, and puffed up her lungs with a deep, steadying breath. "We'll do this your way. I never want to hear from you or that thin-blooded bitch again – do you understand?"

Los Angeles's old kingpin said nothing meaningful to her instructions – only: "Leave, Woeburne. Now."

And – contrary to all better judgment that screamed he would kill her at one fraction of a turn – she did.

And crossed Fifth Street, and paced swiftly to her car, and locked the Audi's leather-lined doors. And drove back to a silent house.

And so ended Serena Woeburne's crash-course with Jyhad in The City of Angels.


	33. Children of Circumstance

**Children of Circumstance**

No doubt about it: Lily felt like hammered shit.

The girl's forehead pressed into _Asp Hole_'s upstairs bar, ducked in the shadows and carcinogens of this place, enamel cooling her temples. There was an ache pressing at the backs of Harris's eyeballs that no amount of pinching or blood pints subdued. Her body did not look much better, she knew - the springtime colors of happier wardrobes had taken on a bleached-out, despaired hue; pale orange hair, jaundiced yellow sockets, and red tear ducts were sickly against freckled skin. Confused burned. She could not avoid it – slumped forward in her high-legged chair, feet hanging limp, unwanted martini stagnating in one hand. Artificial smells and amped-up synthesizer assailed her. Warbled Goth-rock was oppressing every corner of this smoky little Hollywood hotspot. Grief draped from her gristle and lanks like the unironed clothing, like somebody's price.

She never liked this club. The amorous second-floor crowd was an upsetting backdrop to depression, arms and legs groping drunkenly beneath corner tables; cola sugar made every surface sticky, wooden walls and dark carpet shaking from the DJ below. Even in life, Ash Rivers's joint always had too many angsty edges for her tastes. It was all tourists, lotharios and tipsy fans vying for a chance at their host's checkbook or mattress. But the swamped bartender didn't bother her, and right now, that was enough.

Lily hadn't been inside a house for days. She alternated, with lopsided frequency, between sleeping in her drear-blue Nissan and on a booth in The Last Round. Neither were excellent places for bed-rest; she catnapped uneasily, jarred awake every few hours, bad dreams or instinct or fears of the predators who might enjoy rolling some unattended fledgling out of her car and into a sunrise. It left the neonate stringy and exhausted, mind sluggish. Fatigue only augmented the stress of young muscle. E would probably take her back whenever she finally slunk to knocking on his doorstep – clad in scummy jeans and shivering – but the woman couldn't quite bring herself to face him. Not yet. Not like this. The vileness of these last few evenings was intolerable to a regretful traitor, something that couldn't be confessed. God, what would he say? What could she say? Tearful apologies and make-up sex weren't about to bandage this sore; she'd put it there, cut it into herself.

Los Angeles's Anarch party had been very encouraging at first – expressing their gratitude in high-fives and shoulder-punches – then strangely quiet. Damsel allowed her to take refuge in their haven, but had remarkably little else to chat about lately. Skelter somehow seemed even more ambivalent about their new recruit's existence than usual. Playboy's off-color jokes waned down to half their typical number and his offers of gun trades vanished; Jack made no more misunderstood jeers. She had not seen Nines – not since that night, when underdog victory came dampened by a viciously swollen face and the moldy taste of thankless betrayal. He had taken Ms. Woeburne's stolen data with a smile, and its carrier immediately felt her insides clench. Deadness woke up. She hovered there, drained, gutted of value like a race horse who'd thrown her jockey.

"_Good girl," _Rodriguez had said, cuffed a thumb beneath the thin-blood's chin, and pocketed his bargaining chip, the loyalty she'd switched._ "I knew you'd come through." _

Then he rounded up his stone-faced lieutenant, left, and that was it. He was gone from Lily's life in a series of steps and exchanges. No one answered her timid e-mails. You could not even call him.

She knew.

She hadn't been so adrift since Rolf orphaned her for Germany.

The abandonment was something Harris – desperate to be in denial – expected. She had felt it coming. Some part of her warned that E was right; that you could not trust Kindred; that there was neither hide-nor-hair of an honest reason creatures like them would waste time rearing up a whelp like her. Lily had been a willing pawn. She coveted the promises they gave; in this meat-eating world, even clichéd lies were prettier than reality. It was such a fragile guise – a frail screen of need-help and need-to-hope – that kept evil at bay. It could not last forever. Eventually, the dividing line between fantasy and truth had to crumble down.

This was the cost you paid for some comfort. This was the blood-price for feeling safe – safe in a Baron's favor, and in your own mongrel skin.

What has passed with Serena was a soft scab – at least initially, when guilt paled against the personal knowledge she had nowhere left to go. Now, however – with the hate-energy drained, fork-gouges mended, black eye deflating – she began to feel remorse. Realizations dragged like ship anchors from throat to stomach. _'How could I have done that to Ms. Woeburne?'_ Lily would wonder dazedly, perplexed by the disloyalty. Where was the wellspring of jealousy, of disgust? It seemed a natural thing to feel for better cousins who'd outlast you. Maybe that, too, was tangent desire of someone shut out of high echelons - not loathing, but envy, a sorry pinch. Change had come so suddenly; the prospect of full acceptance from a powerful vampire family seduced her more than Nines Rodriguez did. She lived leftover. There were unlikely prayers instead of concrete hopes: that a feverish crime had not alienated her from those who might still care.

Despair could not stop appetite, though. She was a member of a food-chain in a beast-driven Earth. Sure as the pang of disgrace, thirst began to announce itself; the aroma of dancers downstairs, exuding liveliness and sweat, made dull fangs itch beneath their gums. Her talons sunk into glossed woodwork. A lesser monster, maybe, but she still salivated at blood in the air.

Sadness didn't spur the undead to lurk in nightclubs. Lily was here to hunt.

With no friends or storage refrigerators, meals presented themselves to the fledgling infrequently; missed chances made her instincts uproot human emotions. The eyeless skink of hunger had burrowed itself firmly into Harris's gut. She was not new to being a predator, fresh but no longer fetal. Nevertheless, stalking down appropriate strangers unnerved. E was fully aware of his Sire's squeamishness when it came to pursuit; because she grimaced and hesitated, he usually reeled in their sustenance. The easygoing man took no pleasure in manipulating kine – particularly not the beachside dross he'd once belonged to – but unlike his maker, never found much difficulty in blood-trade. He would return in the wee-hours with some liquored-up sand-doll in tow. Lily almost hated feeding on snappy, silicone plasma; then again, her Childe attracted a certain sort of stock, and she'd no grounds to complain without offering contributions. Tonight there was nowhere to look but herself.

Lily didn't feel like much of a sex-appeal bombshell – unwashed denim and sagging short-sleeves – but ten minutes later, a stool scraped up beside her, and a gentleman planted himself upon it.

"I know what you are," he sang out before she'd a chance to look up.

Harris spooked in her chair, bleary stare gone straight like a rubber-band snap. The neonate was thrown ajar by what she saw waiting. It was a pick-up line straight from campy paranormal romance, but the voice didn't whisper sexy promises… actually, it was sort of annoying, nasal vowels and a manic pitch. And her interloper hit nowhere near sinister stranger status. He was a scruffy guy, matter-of-fact – early twenties, perpetually jittering, a high-wattage and too-big grin. Tousled brown hair framed a juvenile face that radiated excitement, his force of being as explosive and trivial as a fifth-grade science experiment. Wiry shoulders puffed with an unseasonable windbreaker; ratty checker-print sneakers tapped the floor. Man couldn't seem to sit still, either – he was already fidgeting incessantly, heartbeat fast, knuckles rapping out a spontaneous beat on hardwood.

His eyes were hotrod gold.

"Uh. Miserable?" Lily tried, upper lip tucked defensively around her sharp teeth. His statement rattled a supernatural pup, but probably meant nothing; it was likely a failed attempt at being someone's smooth operator. Still, being called out – even in jest – made her neck hairs stand on end. He shook his head insistently.

"Cute, maybe?" she tried again, watching for sweet-talk. It didn't come. Instead, he waved a pair of large, theatrical hands – a legitimate '_no_' – sighing, impatient. The thin-blood chewed her tongue thoughtfully.

"Female?"

"Girl, quit yanking me around!" Fed up with guessing, he hunkered beside Lily at The Asp Hole's counter, left arm resting conspiratorially against hers. Their contact was unexpected – and would have been offensive – had it not occurred so suddenly. Discomfort evaporated before getting a toe through the door. "You _know_ what I mean," he buzzed, bottom eyelids crinkled gleefully. Kinetic energy crackled through the man and into his wildly blinking companion. One schoolyard action, and two strangers found themselves as close-knit old friends. "You're obviously a _you-know-what_. Can't fool me, doll! I'd recognize one anywhere."

"Um," Lily said, anxiously licking her canines. They did not seem too terribly noticeable. Yet there was no doubt something unnatural showed, in her slouched stance or diluted aura; every sentence made him look more like he'd been sucking on live electrical wire. "Yeah, listen. Whatever you're pushing, I don't want any, OK? OK. I'm going now," she muttered, hoping the lame excuse would carry her safely through those ill-lit doors and into Hollywood alone. No such luck.

"Huh? I'm not selling you drugs, man, I was only… oh. C'mon, girlfriend! Are you still tryin' to play me? S'okay; I ain't gonna tell nobody!" her tagalong swore, grappling onto the fledgling's forearm before she could slide away. He must've seen Lily start to panic, as a second later, that keyed-up tone backpedaled into reassurances. "No, really. It's cool! I'm _connected_. I know the score. Wasn't meaning to scare you off, or anything. Just I saw you sitting around over here, and you looked sort'a lonesome – and since I haven't already met you, thought I'd come over and say 'hola,' you know? So yeah. Hola!"

The neonate fretted at him another minute – her expression flat, knees deadlocked – before caution whisked itself outside. She knew another excuse would've been wiser, but this kid looked so harmless. More than that, those hopeful yellow eyes were wearing her down… and _fuck it_, Lily was so damn pitiful lonely. She latched onto human contact like static cling. "In that case, hola back," the vampire mumbled, reserve collapsing. The young man's clutch on her elbow became a victorious snap and then a double-high-five.

"Hell yeah!" he cheered, pulling the girl back towards the bar and plopping her down. His exuberance was overwhelming, and she smiled weakly at it, bombasted by dimpled grins. "See? I knew you weren't one of those bitchy Ventrue types. Right-on! What're you called, lady?"

"Lily Harris," she answered, barely able to finish before he lunged for one of the Caitiff's hands. It was pulled off the bar and trapped happily between his own, all ten digits clamping down and pumping her flaccid arm. The jiggle spread from fingertip to shoulder-socket. She held on on to her seat cushion, bones jangling.

"My name's Knox. Knox Harrington," he introduced himself, blunt teeth blaring, a high voltage. "Damn good to meet you, Lily Harris!"

"Yeah. You, too," the girl murmured, knocked off-kilter by how true that statement was. Overbearing personality aside, she couldn't deny it: he was interesting, and Lily found herself curious. "Can I ask how you know what you know? Sorry if this is rude, but I'm sort of new to everything. And you seem… I'm not sure. Different, somehow."

"That's because I _am_ different. I'm not like you. Wait. Who am I to say that, man? We probably have a lot in common. What I meant was: I'm not _like you_ in that you're a _you-know_ and I'm just a ghoul." Knox was still grinning away; his knee still bounced against the underside of bar. Red floor light glazed against the jacket's navy back. Lily could just make out a logo emblazoned on the front – and it looked to be a smiley-face equipped with small blue fangs. _'Is this guy a joke…?' _almost slipped right out of her mouth and onto its face in the dwindling club.

"What's a ghoul?" she began to ask, but couldn't finish her sentence; Harrington hurtled it forward.

"No, seriously! Are you for real?" the ghoul squealed, voice cracking against his upper throat. God, he was _loud_ about it, too. Harris jumped forward to clap a hand over that running mouth, horrified by the prospect of blowing their cover because some caffeine-pumped kid couldn't find his volume control. Knox scooted away before her palm made contact. "Aw, c'mon. Nobody can hear us over that bass," he snickered, running on thrill, as it seemed he usually did. "Anyway, we better talk real, because hell, honey. You're greener than me."

Lily studied him another minute, winced apprehensively, and said: "You're not one of those Malkavians, are you?"

"What? I wish!" was not exactly the reaction one expected to being Embraced by mad-hatter undead and stricken with mania. "No, girlfriend – weren't you listening to me? I'm a _ghoul._ For a Nosferatu, specifically." He shook his head and ate the apple out of Lily's martini, barely tasting it. Granny Smith cubes crunched as he talked. "I don't mean to be, like, a dick or anything. I know you said you were new and all. It's just pretty much common knowledge. Everybody who's everybody has a ghoul. Sometimes more than one. Kind of a big detail; you know, maybe you should be asking your Sire about this stuff."

It felt like five-pound pair of brass knuckles.

"Whoa, hey-" Knox stammered, sloppy posture correcting itself when the young woman's chin dropped towards her collarbone. Concern ricocheted across a round nose and lemon irises. It looked like someone had hit her in the liver. "Oh, man. I'm sorry. Did something happen to your Sire – is that it? I didn't know. I just saw you over here – honest – and you were looking bummed out, so I figured maybe you might want someone to talk to. Really… I'm not like, trying to bother you," he jabbered, curling up the set of fingers that had reflexively inched forward to poke Lily's left shoulder.

"I'm fine. You're not. It's fine," she parroted, knowing it never is.

"Seriously, don't listen to what I say. I'm a rambling jerk. Half the time I don't even know what's flyin' out of my mouth. I mean, who the hell am I to talk about you, anyway?" he dared himself. "Some random ghoul just comes along and starts talking shit about my Sire, I'd be pretty pissed. If I had a Sire. You know, if I were like you. But geez, don't pay any attention to me; I'm not even in the same caliber as you, girlfriend. I'm no badass vampire. I'm lucky to _work_ for a vampire."

"Yeah, I know what that's like. It's not as lucky as you think. Working for a vampire," the thin-blood chuffed before biting her tongue, retracting behind punishing teeth. She could've drawn blood for the pain of those words. "Or... I used to know what it's like. Look, I'm OK. You're not bugging me; just I've got a lot on my plate right now, and it's kind of a long story."

Knox grabbed his chair, screeching it against the checkerboard tiles and closer to her. Lily would have flinched at the sound had she not been so fraught for a friendly face. And Los Angeles didn't really get a whole lot friendlier than this live-wire, coin-eyed nut who'd seemingly scuttled in from nowhere. "Score! It's like, a complete and total coincidence that I happen to dig long stories."

"You probably won't like this one," Harris grumbled around her palm heel, elbow propped on a disposable coaster. She sighed and pushed the cork circle down their bar. "It's pretty boring, honestly. And it mostly involves me whining about how life's unfair, when really everything's falling to shit lately because I'm a dumb bitch."

The ghoul snorted out another stop-light grin. "Naw, girl – you are trippin.' Like, I don't _know_ you or anything, but you're a lot cooler than most of these Kindred assholes I run into. Especially in Hollywood. Toreador usually just get all up in my grill and tell me to fuck off. But you're pretty-"

"That's sweet, but I've got a boyfriend." (Did she? The question wasn't palatable – not now.)

"No, dude; let me finish my sentences. Er. Not that you're not. Pretty, I mean. Because, sure, you totally are pretty. Also nice. Pretty and nice. 'Pretty nice,' I was going to say." Hyperactivity – a racquetball match of a conversation – but this seemed honest. A mote of relief eased through the paste of her stomach. "Anyway, let's get back to your problems – because they are problems, right? Who knows? I mean, I can't speak for my master or anything, but he does pull a lot of strings in LA. Santa Monica, anyway. Maybe I can help or something. So you should definitely tell me what's eating you."

Lily barely opened her mouth before Knox cracked straight down his middle. Giggles in the thin-blood's face - she gawped at him, surprised, insulted by insensitive behavior in the wake of offering help. "That's real sympathetic! What the hell is wrong with you? I don't have to explain myself to anybody; this isn't Elysium. And I'm not going to put up with some random shit in my business who thinks it's funny I-" Harris began to steam, but her anger tumbled right into the brick wall of a ghoul palm and it jumbled to pieces.

"_What's eating you,_" Knox spat, could hold the pun no longer, choked into his hand.

God help her; Lily laughed.


	34. Pandering Excuses

**Pandering Excuses **

Five-fifty AM stretched the coast in a muggy, misty, grim haze-blue. Streets pruned in lamplight leant into the first glister of morning. Dark windows washed through daybreak; skyscraper edges sharpened under arrowheads of white that lanced open the clouds. Storm-grade shutters were fastened over the penthouse of Venture Tower in retaliation. Ironically enough, they made excellent sun-glare, ricocheting harshly onto California highways. Kine didn't seem to mind, though. Commuters had just begun to stir from their homes and clap out into the thoroughfare with pressed suits, cappuccino cups and briefcases. They passed night owls staggering off city buses, crawling back to empty dormitories, reeking of cheap liquor and hormone surge.

Outdoor Kindred were, of course, dead Kindred by this point in time. As Mr. LaCroix's practical Childe had no penchant for suicide, she was nestled safely in her windowless Empire Arms suite – brown hair tousled around a tired face, glasses perched upside-down upon the bathroom counter, formalwear peeled from dead limbs and replaced with an evening robe. Black silk and shower suds were a marked improvement on eyeliner and shoulder pads for a fatigued Ventrue. Then again, you never _really_ left the office when your business was a Camarilla Prince's.

Physical comforts were mostly a ritual, a sticking habit; she still had yet to close her workday properly. Clean feet and clipped nails, the weary Foreman was only halfway through the mundane business of "turning in" - there was always something lagging to close, tomorrow's troubles to get a jump-on. That was all right, Serena thought, setting down a glass of blood upon her desktop coaster. It was the way she preferred it and the only way good corporals knew to be. So it was that, six o'clock in the Golden State morning, Ms. Woeburne dabbed her mouth on a tissue corner, straightened upon a swivel-chair, trained both shoulders into their secretarial position and embarked upon one last grind of daily correspondence.

**Dear Ms. Woeburne, **the first message read – her name was set in large blue company font.

**This message is to let you know that we have processed your order and shipping is underway. We sincerely apologize for the delay. A company mechanic is scheduled to arrive at your residence on 7/12 between 9:00AM-5:00 PM to install the equipment. As a sign of the value we place upon your business, we would like to offer you a ten percent complementary discount with your next purchase. **

**Thank you for shopping with us, **

**Greenlight Security – Keeping Your Castle Safe  
**

'_About damn time,'_ the Serena snorted, archiving it for future reference. After chasing that awful girl (she still refused to use the name, even privately) into the street, Woeburne tidied up their fight mess and promptly called in for a new set of locks. And – having spent seven hundred dollars in one go: doorbell camera, deadbolts, several combination keys – the officer certainly hoped they would prove more successful than their flimsy predecessors. The next time Harris showed up at this address, she would find a bullet through her throat.

Serena's knuckles popped and pressed on to another e-mail. The Kleenex wore her lipmark and sat folded into a neat, bloodstained square.

**Sender: Joelle Lefevre  
Subject: Fitting Appointment?**

**Dear Friend,**

**You have missed your gown fitting this past Sunday?** (Ms. Woeburne noted the grammatically misplaced question-mark. Still, she uttered a too-late "shit." It seemed forgivable to blank-out a few errands when one's political wellbeing was at stake.) **The tailor called here and he was very angry with me! I have scheduled another one for you tomorrow at 8:45 PM; please do not miss this one, as I do not know when he will be able to meet you again. And you cannot come to Mr. LaCroix's big event in a suit, can you?**

'_Yes, Joelle,'_ the Ventrue condescended with a sneer. She was once again reminded why sensible, business-oriented vampires resented Clan Toreador. _'That would be such a fashion faux-pas, wouldn't it?'_

**Sorry to scold to you but, as you do know, it is my head on our Prince's chopping block whenever you are late!**

**Wellness and fun, dear girl. **(Oh, please. She would rather suck on a Frickin' Chicken drive-thru operator with a drill railed up her right nostril. Slightly melodramatic, perhaps, but at least the metaphor conveyed her enthusiasm about Mr. LaCroix's Giovanni gala.)

**xoxoxo,  
Joelle**

Serena skipped a powerful urge to hiss insults (useless poof; nasty bitch; gussed-up little divvy), penciled the date into her calendar, and filtered through more waiting mail. She deleted four junk advertisements without reading them before landing on another message worth the effort of a decisive left-click.

**Sender: private  
Subject: thanks  
**

**Your lead checked, Woeburne. That's it.  
**

_That's it_. It was a relieving post-script to a dangerous affair. The note granted closure even though that _private sender_ bar congealed her insides; two flimsy words, easily thrown, would have to suffice. Dismissed from an underhanded in-fight of Free-State LA, Serena stared blankly through Nines Rodriguez's memo, cold fingers hovering over _enter_. She stalled there for a solid minute before fright told her to mash "delete." Was the overgrown gang-banger actually thanking her for a response to his _blackmail_? Bastard. Woeburne emptied her digital trash bin with the condemnation of great purpose. _'Ah, yes. That would surely show him.' _

No matter. There was no need to dwell. The awful misadventure was over now – a legitimate _In the Past_.

Of course, she'd have to wipe her entire hard-drive in the near future. Serena mentally noted this before proceeding. She took one more pursed, pointed, discontented sip of red.

The next message read:

**Dear Miss Woeburne: **(Who else could it have been?)

**Good evening. I hope you are feeling well, as I have not seen you in several nights. Ms. Lefevre tells me you have indeed been by our offices, however, so I'll withhold concern.**

**I have an urgent matter that must be attended to. Because of the sensitive nature of this arrangement, I kindly request ahead of time that you check your tendency to barrage me with questions or suspicions and simply do as I say. Thank you in advance.**

**You will immediately contact the Central Domain Anarch Party and propose a brief cessation of hostilities. Inform them that a representative of mine wishes to meet with them regarding the Kuei-jin threat, and that this meeting will occur in hopes of drafting a local ceasefire. The date is July twenty-sixth at ten o'clock in the PM. It will take place afterhours on the Santa Monica Pier. This is nonnegotiable. **

Serena took a moment to process the slew of information, leaning back from her flat-screen and blinking. It was one aggressive paradigm shift, but calling this news "unexpected" would be understatement, something not known. A weapons-down with the Anarchs? In official print? The implications were startling enough to jar a complacent Toreador from sauna hour. Brief and hawkish though this so-called truce might be, Prince LaCroix had given no indication a mutual pact _ever_ crept onto his strategy table. To the contrary, he spoke of them with derision and threadbare tolerance. _"Even the Nosferatu whom slither in their sewage pipes do I respect over Kindred who will face neither their condition, nor the rules it requires,"_ she remembered her Sire's comment, forewarning his protégé about LA's underbelly and the dark entanglements beneath. And now these same craven peoples were apparently a flag on Venture Tower's war room maps? It smelled of madness.

The woman gnawed her bottom lip. First the Nagaraja, then the Italians, and now they were politicking the crows on their fence? What was it, exactly, that Sebastian intended to do – align California?

More importantly for her purposes:_ why ME?_

The query came with a range of answers that might've spooked her, had Ventrue juniors time enough to mull every possibility over when under orders like that. Fortunately – and, perhaps, predictably – a spring-locked Ms. Woeburne was far too busy scrutinizing microscopic details to absorb the situation's Big Picture. It was a trademark personality fault, and an unmistakably Foreman one, at that.

July twenty-sixth, Santa Monica Pier. _Nonnegotiable_. If Serena was not mistaken (she was not mistaken), then this hypothetical armistice would coincide with Ms. Mira's overzealous… "promotion ceremony" was the only phrase that came to mind. _'Most curious,'_ the operative thought, but a direct command from her Prince was indisputable. Perhaps his datebook had overflowed. Either that, or double-booking was another outlet for monarchical dramatics. Mr. LaCroix preferred his successes smooth, but that did not mean he hadn't indulged in the grandiose flair of boardroom Jyhad - the tantalizing way you could stack your victories, one atop the other, like little pikemen on a battle line. Fast, neat triumphs all in a daisy row. This sounded like the most likely conclusion. Scrolling down her browser page, the steadfast Childe sighed, recalled the virtues of chain-reaction leadership, and read on.

**A successful pact will, of course, require both their cooperation and yours. Convincing the Anarchs to meet with us on civil terms will likely require some tact on your part, so put the faculties of our shared blood to good use and persuade them. I strongly suggest you seek face-to-face preliminaries within the next two days. **(Smart errand-runners knew Sebastian's "strongly suggest" translated to "absolutely demand." Having no mind to turn up pink slips anytime soon - or, more pragmatically, assassins - Ms. Woeburne took note. Metaphorically and literally; she pulled a paper sheet, printed the specifics in big, bold, conquistador lines.)

**Rest assured that you will be appropriately armed. Joelle will forward you the contact information for a few Foundation bodyguards. **

**Best of luck, my dear, though I trust you shan't need it. **

**SL**

Ms. Woeburne pressed her lips into nonexistence, shook out her typist's ache, and prepared to pluck out a suitable reply. She began carefully. Sebastian's cool mood spoke through his curt, crisp language.

**Sender: S. Woeburne  
Subject: Ceasefire  
**

**Dear Mr. LaCroix,**

**Sorry to bother you. I'm in fine health – thank you for asking – but have been quite busy lately and did not want to pester you. **

**I received your message and will bite my tongue on any questions. Bearing in mind my recent history with the Central Domain Anarchs, however, I hope you don't mind if I voice some concern. It is because of the obvious importance of this assignment that I hesitate. I'm not certain I'm the best candidate for negotiating a truce. Would not a speaker be more appropriate? I will gladly forward this information and anything else pertinent to Ms. Gutierrez or Mr. Chen for you.**

**Please accept my apologies if I have fallen short of your expectations. I humbly ask that you will take my unease into consideration, and understand your ultimate decision, whatever it may be. **

**Thank you,  
-S. Woeburne**

Serena fixed a pesky typo and clicked it away. There it was, damage done; her polite request whisked off to Venture Tower without another hitch.

That's it. Yes, that was _it_, indeed.

She could only hope Sebastian would actually heed these misgivings; one never could tell when reason trumped power-trips with Kindred Princes. It was clear, however, that a follow-up appeal to downtown's Baron did not inspire confidence in high-strung Ms. Woeburne. More than that, it reeked of potential revenge… and thereby stood to get her killed. _'Though there's nothing entirely new about that.'_

She suddenly was not very hungry. Her morning snack would go lukewarm, bubble thick, fade to waste in its crystal cup.

Perhaps Serena should be growing used to danger by this point. The root of her lifespan had gotten tough and thorny enough to resist neonate retreats, the squalling and squeamishness of lesser servants like Joelle Lefevre or Roderick Dunn, but it was not some footsoldier march in Hendon. This request seemed excessive, work for expendables of lower rank. It was not itching Harpies, debt-collectors or blasphemous Primogen she was being asked to curtail in Los Angeles; no, more often than not, discontent Anarchs came caterwauling into her lap. That fact was only half-planned, true, partially victim-of-circumstance. Ms. Woeburne did not feel much consoled. However they entered the fray, those brutes were bereft of due process, lacking rudimentary decorum; they were unpredictable elements, something a woman like her never welcomed. Besides: a primitive, featherless corner of the agent was still afraid of Nines Rodriguez. The prospect of crossing him in another obscure alleyway – a dangerous act after their "business" seemed complete – was nightmare-worthy. Even disregarding their troubled past, by no means did Serena embrace the idea of sitting down and parlaying politics with a streetside Jim Jones.

Frowning and thoroughly unsettled, LaCroix's Childe forced herself to run down a glint of good news in all this disarray. _'Look on the bright side, puppy,'_ her subconscious tried. (It's what Aunt Tab always called her - a chin-up when her knees hurt badly, the bruises were ugly, and badly-set bones kept a child inside on rare sunny days. Serena was not sure why the babyish nickname stuck, sounded appealing, or seemed to matter.) _'At_ _least we're still in one piece.' _

No small feat in California these nights. The Anarchs were despicable, but had yet to smear-attack or simply destroy her (in body or reputation). Ms. Woeburne's relationship with her overbearing Sire remained in its proper sorts. Despite Sebastian's irritable tone, his business-as-usual nature reassured Serena that her faction accident had been swept quietly under a rug.

Doctor's visits; mean things said; rusted metal, a cage of her ankles and calves. Not being able to get in the lunch hours and no one to drive her home. Cheap, adolescent miseries; what a sour face she must've had with plump cheeks and smokey eyes._ 'It'll get better, pup; it'll pass by; this is just a hiccup in time.' _

There was still an inbox-full to answer/purge/ignore/block, however, and so the Camarilla operative did what she always did; she soldiered blithely on.

**Sender: Jeanie V  
Subject: fun in the sun  
**

**Hi-ho, LaCroix Girl!**

**Its your new bff here. You wouldn't forget me so soon, would you, gumdrop? Of course you wouldn't. **

**So Lady Chastity is letting me off the old ball-n-chain this weekend, and I think it'd be absolutely fetching if we had a little playdate in Hollywood. I've got xtra $$$ to burn through and you sure as hell aren't hurting for it, are you? Maybe if you pick up the tab I will even share some more filthy anarch skeletons. Viky's Secret & embarrassed Toreador…. sounds like summertime, am I right?**

**Get back to me, sunshine!**

*** Jeanette ***

It was as much a trade offer as her formal master's – but it _smacked_ of catastrophe – and "LaCroix Girl" did not have the time.

Serena's first reaction was to hurl the grammatically atrocious thing somewhere far from sight – she had been called a jellybean, after all, among other things – but prudence thought snubbing one's informant might be a tad unwise. Instead, refusing to have the sugary address in her contacts, the Foreman marked lascivious Voerman "not junk." It struck Ms. Woeburne as deliciously just. As for the supposed get-together between new gal-pals? _'Sod it, for now.'_ Ladies' Nights in Hollywood were an obvious outreach for partnership, for more silent dealings, but extraordinarily messy ones. She'd deal with Jeanette's misguided friendship tomorrow morning when anxiety forbade her any decent sleep.

'_Though I suppose, in exchange for permanent intel, an occasional lingerie spree isn't too foul a trade,'_ the officer had to admit. Perhaps it would behoove her to send Voerman Jr. a rain-check and grit through the expedition sometime next week. Whispered dressing room compacts with a nymphomaniac in tow; what a pundit that would be, and what a scene, besides! Jeanette was not exactly the most subtle girlfriend to bring on one's outings, far from appropriate company for Prince protégés... but it'd be pity to fritter such a ripe opportunity away. Surely Sebastian would appreciate it if she handed him one of Abrams's black lists along with the next report…

_No_. This was not her job. She unticked the message and buried it beneath a dozen others.

_Left-foot, right-foot, left-foot, on. _ It was a chant she'd been marching a long time before corporates, Camarilla or Mr. LaCroix.

Ms. Woeburne got up long enough to pour her unwanted meal down the kitchen sink. She rinsed the tint from the glass, let pink water sit inside. A cabinet full of them, all stacked in order, top-down against dust. The Ventrue would fill them up with bottled vintage and be careful not to overpour. She was an ungentle creature with rushed priorities and cautious hands - more diligent than need-be, aware of the cost. Break one and there would always be another lookalike there.

She had forgotten to water the vase flowers again. Serena did not bother trying to restore them. She grabbed a handful of stem, petal, pollen, and she threw them out.

The chair squeaked when Ms. Woeburne sat again. Her heels were quiet on the frigid tile, conscious of how they fell on the rug; toes pointed forward, muscle retention, steps mindful. Excellent posture; good training. She folded both legs as the woman went back to work - introductory letters, notes from Ms. Breckenridge, expense lists to file. Spam whittled away. Serena actually snorted at some harebrained scam concerning a destitute friend trapped overseas (dismissed easily, as the operative couldn't claim to have any friends – and if she _did_, they wouldn't be idiots); cracked her joints again. It was roundabout that moment, spine sore and eyes tired, that her labor, for the night, would come to an end.

A new message blipped onscreen. She veered off and brought it up.

**Sender: Sebastian  
Subject: RE: Ceasefire  
**

**Oh, Serena. You didn't honestly think I wouldn't find out, did you?**

**SL**

The world got very, very quiet.

It got so quiet that the vampire's eardrums, dull and distracted ten seconds ago, heard a fire siren pitch itself hoarse several miles away. Turtle doves clacked in their gutter roost outside. A raccoon dug himself into tamper-proof trash just around back of Empire Hotel's parking lot; in the building's lobby, a night watchman's leather shoes clapped marble, aimless looking, a boring hunt. Televisions droned. Somewhere, stories below, a scrawny tom slipped off its fencepost and yowled embarrassment. Electricity hummed through two-dozen outlets and into plastic power cords.

Impossible though it might've been – regardless of whatever science applied to the Kindred species – Ms. Woeburne would swear this to Final Death:

Her heart beat.

**Sender: S. Woeburne  
Subject: Urgent Appointment**

**Sire,**

**I will be outside your office door in thirty minutes to explain everything.**

**-Serena**

She had absolutely no time for panic. Ms. Woeburne's plasma coagulated; her tendons dissolved, major organs pumping ice-water calm.

Focus. _Focus_.

The woman stood up, military rigid, fists balling at either side. With three steps, she was buckled up in her most somber trench-coat. Keys hit her left pocket. Stockings sheathed both knees before their owner processed the action of dressing. Her uncombed hair went untended. Glasses slid up the strong bridge of Ventrue nose.

Ms. Woeburne had barely tugged on shoes when one familiar, unfeeling, maddeningly happy chime announced she'd received her response.

**Sender: Sebastian  
Subject: RE: Urgent Appointment**

**I don't recommend it. I am rather cross with you at the moment.**

**Do as I've asked. If you are successful, we will discuss the terms of your apology to me. **

**Until then,**

**SL**

Serena – a glass turned topside-down – could do nothing but swallow air.

She choked.

**P.S. Presuming you survive until the twenty-sixth, don't miss your fitting appointment.**


	35. Hellhounds

**Hellhounds  
**

It felt unpleasantly dim in The Last Round garage, and Nines Rodriguez was wedged halfway under a worthless-broken-ass-piece-of-shit jeep when his cell phone rang.

"God bless it," the Brujah cussed. Second time in six months their community vehicle blew its shock absorbers. The worthless-broken-ass-piece-of-shit was a Chrysler; Skelter acquired three of them from a distant cousin of his last year (clean-cut young man was a ghoul now). Because their pickup had quickly become Rodriguez's personal ammo-hauler, the new vehicles were split on a casual time-share. Just as well. Baron Angeltown didn't make trips anymore without slugging home shotgun shells; _insurance_, he'd say, stack boxes inbound for a basement in Griffith Park. _Griffith Park_ - a place and a plan. They didn't talk much about Nines's last-ditch contingency scheme, a dismal prospect that, unnamed, shared its title with a mountain reserve. He was determined, and determination was enough. They allowed him resources outside the commune for the sake of it. What was left over had always been enough.

Funny that it was always Damsel who seemed to bust everything: cars, weapons, radios and (occasionally) fledgling bones. Nines had a theory she and Playboy went off-road joyriding up in Hollywood's hills on weekends no one was around to stop them. His suspicions were based on hunches, and, since tonight, on limestone packed into the tire treads. _'Stupid kids.'_

Baron LA didn't find himself in a real nice humor this evening. No particular trouble – nothing outside of the ordinary bullshit: Camarilla, Sabbat, and Stupid Kids – but smiles staled in his mouth tonight. He was still pissed the fuck off over Carroll. Rodriguez publicized the Gangrel's deception in frightening detail - gave the specifics of traitor-hunting - how he'd been chained to a dilapidated bulldozer in some burb's machine graveyard, left for sunrise howling like the dog he was. Good for the loyal red-blooded kids to hear it. Better still for the weak-willed ones. Compromise changed the climate more than fistfights, something older Brujah grew to appreciate, but occasional violence did wonders for struggling morale. Christie swore she'd be by sometime next week to thank them in handshakes and firearms.

Nines hadn't personally known Atlantic - not past that overblown pseudonym, anyway - prior to his betrayal, but they had a creed around these parts, as did most Free States: a turncoat is a turncoat is a dirty-rotten-mother-fucking turncoat. It was bad enough puzzling how tainted intel might've colored their operations; how strange occurrences or 'accidents' might've been premeditated, possibly financed by Camarilla money orders. It was bad enough burying green fledges full of their bullets. Losing soldiers to their cash payouts was just fucking insulting. Rodriguez made the call, but wished he'd been in Bakersfield when they roped Carrol's pathetic, whimpering carcass to a dead Cat.

At least then he wouldn't be jimmied beneath this lousy jeep, grease plastered fingertips to elbows, black hair blacker with dirt and soot and whatever else.

"Son-of-a-bitch. RED," he called, a holler into the bar's back room. No one answered. Nines waited about twenty seconds and tried again. "Hey, DAMSEL."

Her name echoed off metals and hardware crates. He knew the Den Mother must've heard him - she never wandered too far, especially not now, when any odd happening might devolve into firebombs. Television noise buzzed dully through these too-thin walls. You could hear the other, sharper noises: glass tinks, boards groaning, a few bodies shifting inside. All that going on, and Nines knew which of those sharper-noises belonged to Damsel. It was her shoes rasping the concrete, plastic on cement; it was her walking with such awkward, unnatural heaviness; it was her scent downstairs, past the booths, by the door. A familiar smell after all this time - stronger than the littler kids around here, front-and-center, still vaguely hovering about his spare sheets and laundry though she'd stopped living with him years ago. Young blood was oddly like spoiled peppermint and Redbull. Kind of tickled his nose.

"What," she said, standing in the threshold, right there on the stoop of their garage.

"Pick up the phone," he ordered without seeing her. Nines's voice was a notch irritable. Every ring shook that cell closer to the edge of the nearby shelf it sat on; only five feet or so away, but well out of reach from his current position, flopped out here on the goddamn floor.

"Do it yourself," she growled back, an irrational dismissal, a fight started just not to seem easily pushed around. Damsel had declared rabid innocence in regards to the Wrangler, and she was displeased her Sire's short temper, deserved or not. Badly-dyed hair – fire hydrants and maraschino cherries; a simple, unabashed, primary color – bristled. Arms crossed. Eyes burned livid between smoky lids. Rodriguez knew she'd do as he'd asked, though, out of respect if not good manners. Girl's grudges hit with two-hundred-horsepower force, but their sting wore off fast.

"I know you ain't goin' to make me crawl my ass out from under this car," Nines threatened. His mood worsened when one sloppy wrench turn stripped a nut. To be honest, he was never very good at this shit. Never really had the patience for it. He expected his tools to work.

Skelter wasn't here, though, and God forbid a Brujah let something sit around broken when the alternative was hearing Damsel bitch about it. Didn't have the patience for a rant (upper-case or lower-case) tonight. He'd rather get his hands busy. He hoped he wasn't breaking anything worse.

The Baron watched bright red shoes pang around front tires, stop sharp and disappear. There was a metallic thump as her bum hit the hood. Red perched on cheap army-green, legs folded into an Indian square, and she mashed the button _on_.

"Rodriguez's phone," Damsel snapped, unhappiness in two words. She was scowling like hell up there above him. Nines could hear it something terrible, and knew the offhand hostilities were coming, a couple shots to make a stupid-kid Den Mother feel better about life. "Who are you; what do you want; why should he care?" she demanded. A glare overhead; and somewhere below, a roll of a calmer, bluer pair.

Damsel waited maybe five seconds before hopping down and hanging up. "Nothing. Waste of time. Probably a fucking pollster," she mumbled, thoroughly aggravated with being here at the moment. Kid sulked like a sour baby crocodile on slow nights like these. She cocked that knockoff soldier beret over her mess of crimson and gestured some undkindness. Her captain gave one loud guffaw from around back of an oversized wheel.

"Maybe less nothing if you didn't walk in here backwards."

"Hey, I'm not your goddamn secretary." Teeth flared through lips maybe even redder than that agonizingly red mane. It was typical behavior, all this snarling. Her demeanor was a bit more argumentative than usual towards him, though, an obvious compensation for that un-Brujah-like display of obedience. Saw through it like a glass pane in Venture Tower. The Baron licked left fang and tried not to get madder than made sense. "You're going to have to get yourself a new bitch if you think I'm here to run your shit, screen your calls. You don't know what the fuck you're doing under there, anyway. So I don't see why you think you can lay there - just lay there - asking other people to fan your brow, answer your phone, suck your dick, shine your-"

"Watch your mouth," Nines scolded, not of a mind to indulge her bickering urge. His halfhearted warning got shouldered off.

"I don't see how in the hell can you—"

"Skelter get here?" the Anarch asked before she could steam again, not particularly caring, hoping to shortstop another bitch-bout. Her shrug went unseen.

"Why? So he can jump on my fucking back about this, too? I told you already: those damn shocks never sat right. Hit one measly-ass pothole and my mug always flies into the goddamn ceiling. Maybe _somebody_ installed 'em wrong last time." A mutter cut her off.

"Kick that over, will you?" He was referring to a canister of WD-40. She picked up and rolled it under the jeep.

"Now get out," Rodriguez commanded, catching the vial. He applied a generous spray to the stuck joint. It glistened tellingly, but didn't do much else. The Baron's grip skidded, missing its leverage point, his right kneecap smacking into the jeep door. He swore antagonistically. It took Potence to make the bolt finally spit onto cement.

Damsel, grumbling, had just about-faced and headed back into the storage room when Nines's cell rang another time._  
_

"Cryin' out loud," the Brujah cursed, scrambled out from beneath Skelter's vehicle, and made a grab for it. He toweled the oil off both hands into a corner of undershirt, used a forearm to scrape his face clean.

"Hello?" Rodriguez barked it. There were thick black lacerations that looked not unlike blood painted across ribs and lower back. They dried the cotton up and made it itch. "Speaking. _Hmm_? No, that hasn't..."

A pause. Eyelids squinted around pale metal. The reserved, hesitant, careworn pride was unmistakable.

"_Woeburne_?" Nines tried, knowing full well who it was. There was another brief, uneasy silence before she answered '_yes_.' The Anarch snorted. "You've got to be shitting me," he ruffed, part confusion, other parts honest disbelief. "Did I miss something? Didn't I just cut you loose? What on earth do you want?"

He listened to her titter, the kind of tone that espouses good business when it doesn't come from bad seeds. Even the best tone wouldn't help a Ventrue much here; those same haughty, talkative airs annoyed the piss out of Rodriguez, who liked to think he used no excess words, gave no speeches. Prince-court language was decorous in comparison. A Prince-Childe's sounded no better to him - her pitch rang like falsehood, words hollow, the sort that'd crack if you hit them. Persuasions spring-wound; crisp turns-of-phrase. They tightened the calm right off Nines's face - crossed his arms, made his jaw start to hurt where the big teeth clenched. Never mind the horrible misstep this was on a Foreman's behalf; it was hard enough determining what the hell she wanted. Swift letters all streamed together in manners that didn't mean much. Their message was trampled beneath a parade of 'naturally' and 'of course,' crux lost mid-translation, communication caught on a culture snag. The Baron of Los Angeles scratched the back of his neck. _'What the fuck is she even on about?'_

Rodriguez leant his weight on one foot and scowled, much like Damsel had, a fearsome expression saying little about the fuel brewing beneath. That's the face you needed, with friendly reptiles and larger beasts. It was one that, for Brujah, automatically came. "Will you cut to the chase sometime tonight? This isn't a social call."

The agent froze between an appeal and a condescension to clarify. She seemed constricted - a spitting snake with a boot on its gullet. They were a Camarilla breed of poison in LA these nights; rattlers and cottonmouths; you'd better wear thick soles. _"I think it would be best if we met in-person to discuss this,"_ Ms. Woeburne suggested; not that Ventrue ever really "suggested" anything. Nines braced himself against the parked driver door.

"That's not going to happen, Woeburne." He offered no alternative. An unexplained, unprecedented mano-a-mano with some ball-buster he'd recently blackmailed didn't seem like a friendly proposition. And, after putting up that big fight about audacious demands and nasty protocol, she expected an enemy politician to clink glasses off-the-record? _Sorry, Cam._ Nines was no coward, but hadn't lived a century by being an idiot. This conglomerate child had too many reasons to plug a bullet in his skull. "Not now, now tomorrow, not-never. You're going to call somebody else if you want to make friends. But I'll humor you, sure. Say what you have to say to me. Maybe I'll bite."

"_I'm reluctant to have this conversation over the telephone, Mr. Rodriguez." _The voice fit around his name with adamant neutrality. Ire backed up down her diamond-collared throat. _"Your hesitation, given recent events, is... it's understandable," _she decided, resenting having to do so. Woman tried to hold it back, swallow it up. You could feel the hatred, though; all that odium, that rotten blood, leaking through her gritted smile and brigadier nose._ "This is awful timing. Clearly. Obviously. So please appreciate this, and, among other things, that it is a shared concern. If you doubt my intentions, you need not come alone. We will meet in a semi-public area. For peace of mind - on both sides. It will only be a brief appointment; this is just a precursor to business, really, but I must insist that I speak with you face-to-face. The opportunity comes straight from Prince LaCroix, you understand. Neither of us can risk interference."_

"What part of 'not going to happen' flew over your head, babe?"

"_Mr. Rodriguez. See reason, please," _the Ventrue clapped, a superciliousness order pushed from stomach to head to tooth. Her English snap-crackle-popped. _Please_, though, marched on weak ankles. Nines thought she sounded scared. _"If you were in any danger from us, I surely wouldn't call ahead to forewarn you. Bring bodyguards. I certainly plan on bringing mine. But believe me when I say that you will feel sore for having refused my offer because of some baseless suspicions. Revenge does not interest me. I ask you to meet as a government officer, not someone who holds petty vendettas, or has an axe to grind. We are both beyond that, I think."_

The Brujah scoffed, unconvinced by her well-rehearsed little speech. "Sure are. Since we're being 'beyond that,' tell me something. Why are you expecting to get more than a dial tone from this? I can't count all the reasons your people have to get us in a bind - one like the contract you're offering, here - so I'm not particular inclined to believe the suspicions are baseless. I don't care how nonchalant you sound, blueblood. One real piece of work. Your ass must be out in front of a firing squad to ask this of me, and to do it now."

A tense intermission. The Ventrue needn't bedazzle this fact of their business with corporate jargon, however; her stalling was enough.

Rodriguez sighed. _Jesus_, he thought, then - because why not - said. A conference with LaCroix's trigger-happy baby-girl had not been on tonight's agenda. He squinted and rolled the proposition over anyway. Set-up? Possibly, but Nines couldn't imagine why someone who'd just received a bona fide Anarch Treatment would roll up her sleeves and goose-step right back into his clutches. There had to be an angle he hadn't yet seen - and unseen angles were far more dangerous than a bitch with a pop-gun, panic button and chip in her shoulder. His people were primed and his reputation had good footing right now. Best to figure out what the fuck she wanted before this situation deteriorated – or, worse, escalated into another legal spat.

"Tell you what, Woeburne. We'll talk because, considering our last exchange, I feel like you earned a chance. One off-chance. But I don't owe you, or your boss, jack shit." The Baron's free hand hooked itself in his belt loop. It left tar stains on denim, marks he couldn't care about, absentminded mistakes. "Twenty minutes is all I can spare for you. I'll be 'round back of the condemned Good Samaritan at eleven. Whether you show up is on you. There's an old pharmacy lobby we can use - thick walls; no windows; couple emergency lights still work, I think. And you can bet six digits I am bringing backup, so don't get opportunistic on me. Which is what – maybe three months' salary for you?"

Her lips smacked. _"I've 'earned' twenty minutes of your time? Well, happy day. I suppose I can die now."_

Silence.

"_Sorry. I didn't mean that. I'll be there at ten-thirty."_

Nines gave a single, controlled cough, dark eyebrows nearing his hairline. It made a comment he didn't have to speak. Serena Woeburne, wincing her blank-slate into wrinkles, lent new meaning to "self-destructive." Lucky thing her lead on Carroll hadn't been faulty; Rodriguez might've been less forgiving otherwise.

"You do that." He paused, allowing the arrangement, and its weight, to sink. "I'm responding to this as a courtesy to you, Cam. Your risk is appreciated. So I'd hope you appreciate that _courtesy_ is not a commodity I have available for your people very often. If you're not there – or if you _think_ you are capable of fucking with me – you will regret it. You will powerfully regret it. And trust me when I tell you this: whatever happens tonight, there won't be another time. This is your only shot, Princess. Don't blow it," the Brujah warned, blinked, and closed his cell on a mouthful of empty thank-yous and a dead front line.

Baron LA flipped the phone in one hand, back arches pressed against window glass.

_Hmm._

This was shaping up to be a more interesting evening than he'd planned.

Nines's first instinct filed this badly-timed covenant under a long list of Camarilla traps. It had filed correctly, but like smashed cats and skinned cougars, curiosity bolstered Brujah moxie, and convenient courage was a medicine good leaders always stored in reserve. This was especially true in light of their recent history. You couldn't afford to jump dugouts or gallop through crossfire in a battleground State, but you could break out a dose of ego every now-and-then - measured bravery, calculated bait. Speaking of bravery (and bait): he'd figured nothing short of Methuselahs at her heels would prompt S. Woeburne to ever stick a tip-toe in his territory again… at least, not without a couple panzers rolling behind. What could she possibly want? What did he have to offer up (exempting his chopped-off head) that could tempt a Ventrue into betting with hers? Assuming those (many) promises of impartiality weren't horseshit, Rodriguez still didn't have a clue. Motions like these typically ran counter-current to smart decisions. He hadn't pushed, not since Atlantic; in fact, cutting that spectacled tramp free had been the most charitable call Nines made all year. He claimed that with irony and with truth. Jyhad dealt hard knocks, but blackmail aside, they'd been pretty merciful to the Childe of their tyrant; she couldn't seriously be gunning for payback. She couldn't be that cocky, or that stupid.

Could she? No. Fuck no. Definitely probably maybe not.

You know, he honestly didn't have a clue about that one, either.

Reckless priss was in for some terrible disappointment if that's where her dreams were floating these days… disappointment and a sudden increase in lead content. He might not be one-hundred percent on if was a dagger buried under all this procedure, but Nines _was_ sure it wouldn't be going into him. No way some halfbaked Ventrue paper-pusher springs one now; not after how close she'd danced to having her brains burst all over a basement wall; definitely not with Skelter and Playboy in tow. He'd play it safe, anyway – that was a given. Security took no more effort than a friendly call to two-tap Doughie and a sniper roost on the rooftops somewhere nearby. Who knew? Maybe the fork-tongue really was off her goddamn nut; maybe that was a byproduct of running LaCroix's dry-cleaning most of your time alive.

'_How many kids like that does a Prince burn through in a hundred years?'_ Nines wondered. One almost had to feel a little bad for ol' London. But it'd be easier if she wasn't such a bluenosed bitch._  
_

The Brujah snorted, pushing himself upright and away. Hell, why not? He'd arm up with some heavy-duty buckshot and see what afterparty games this Cam thought she'd ply. Worse came to worse, well… there'd be a few corporate suits dirtying Good Samaritan's already dirty tile, some mean looks thrown, a court to loathe him little more than they had the night before. Loathing couldn't pan out into anything real on its own. Rodriguez wasn't about to shoot first; this wouldn't collapse into a goddamn trial – not on his watch – and he didn't think LaCroix would underestimate an Anarch headman enough to think so. Public opinion wasn't exactly on the Prince's side enough for staging illegal Hunts. These nights, dead Ventrue checked in closer to 'community service' than 'crime.' So long as those feelings stayed grounded in law, might as well saunter over and hear what company gospel Woeburne had to preach.

Shower first, though. Nines wiped the oil off his knuckles and wandered inside, deck dealt, handguns clanking in their holsters.

* * *

"_What three things are these, sweet William?" says she,  
_"_That stand here at your feet?"  
_"_It is three hell-hounds, Marjorie," says he,  
_"_That's waiting my soul to keep."_

_- "William and Marjorie," English folktale  
_

* * *

"This is like parole," the Baron sighed, dragged out a chair, and planted himself heavily across the table from Ms. Woeburne.

He wasn't shitting you. The sterile architecture of Good Samaritan Hospital was froze-over in a cold, criticizing shade of emergency light; it spelled out the abandonment of haunted houses, sunken ships, prison sentences. Who knew why - place had been dead for maybe two years. Though the structures were sound, hollowness ate every bit of life up, made what lingered inside echo of sickness, plastics and bleach. There hadn't been a breathing body inside for a good long while. And there wasn't tonight, not in the clinical sense; soon as Nines walked in, under silent metal detectors and down the hall that said _TO PHARMACY_, there the corpses were. They stood upright and awful-clean beneath all that depression and all the blue. Three sets of Ventrue eyes honed upon him. Their flesh was anemic; their papers were laid out neatly on the circular reception desk.

They were already unpacked, of course. Right there - right in the middle of this bad-dream lounge- Prince LaCroix's Childe sat straight-backed at her table, collar crisp, watch ticking, hands folded beside a cheap snake lamp. Malachite eyes checked and double-checked everything but their guest. A ballpoint clipped between two healed fingers; a brittle notepad waited face-up upon the countertop. The closures on her three-snap ladies' power-suit winked indifferently at him over cheap plywood. Nothing seemed an unusual brand of intimidating, and yet lamp-glare hit the woman's glasses at odd, disturbing angles; made edges seem razor sharp that weren't; and it all made a Brujah's hackles rack itchy and defensive up the length of his spine.

Two bureau soldiers flanked the Foreman on either side, stoic in each corner, shoulders flatter than a manufacturing line. Their whites shone like wolves in the darkness. They made no fuss at his entrance, balancing Israeli rifles against breast pockets; Nines didn't bother balancing out his grimace.

"Good evening, Mr. Rodriguez," the operative whipped out and her voice was a Styrofoam plate in a five-year-old's hand. She sounded like a motor – painfully perturbed, forcibly pleasant and incredibly grudging. She did not look at him directly. "I'm glad you could join us."

You needn't serve time to know parole was one-third snipe-hunt and two-thirds sham. Those were the sort of fair-deals government mouths would cut. Woeburne, too, was a backhanded bargain; a false shoot for freedom; an officer whose fingernail polish and pocketbook and blouse buttons taunted, tempted, for bigger reasons than ones had by men on lifetime parole. Click-pens and too-small front teeth. You had to hate her guts. Sometimes that feeling is natural; there doesn't always have to be an better story why.

"Christ," said Mr. Rodriguez, a resignation, and the next thing to _hello_.

Skelter, temperance for anyone so close to Sebastian LaCroix a solid zero, walked heavy enough to thunder. His boots banged the tile, left big dustprints; his glower was a more immediate threat than the g-men or the guns. He walked all the way around them, that ancilla and her unmemorable rotts -a big, showoff hoop to get where he wanted to be, stopping straight across their lobby from the portside bodyguard. It was an attempt to make everybody more nervous than they seemed, to announce they'd taken precautions; no use getting fast-fingers or nasty ideas. Skelter usually did this kind of thing. Man was far from a hothead, but smart soldiers always prepared, and wise ones preferred threats to enemy action. This soldier in particular was one who came prepared. Unlike Nines, who put a lot of himself into not looking scared, the central den's second flat expected "shit to go south," as he'd put it so many times with live rounds cramped in pockets, pack, sleeves. Rodriguez valued that instinct deeply. Foresight was partly why he'd asked his lieutenant to come along (fast reflexes were another), and the Gangrel did not disappoint on either front. He was absolutely no-nonsense tonight – slung one menacing double-barrel, wore a backpack, battle-ready Green Beret. That hawk gaze stung worse than a deep-freeze. His hands were locked upon trigger and forestock, bullet-proof vest stretching coat lapels.

Meanwhile, Kent-Alan – kid's well-loved corduroy failing at gravity – sidled on in like a shit-faced guy showing up to an embarrassing date. He chose primary weapons not from the rifle strapped over his shoulder or the .38 in his pocket, but a disarming grin-and-salute. Arrogant little fucker. Tossed back that blond mop, clucked his tongue for a greeting, and plopped right in a waiting-room chair. Dust wafted and the Ventrue tried to ignore it. Baron LA got annoyed himself, tell true, but he didn't bark. He knew the way Toreador goaded. He knew the fear bottled up in there, how much seriousness hid, reality that all came rushing out when a blueblood broke way and a bullet blasted through Preacher's skull. And he knew that arrogant little fucker was more than good enough for the thousand-pound ego he carted around.

"Make it worth my while," Nines proposed. Chair legs screeched as he scooted back, slow and leisurely as could be managed under present circumstances, kicked out a boot. The cheeky, casual display rattled this pack of Camarilla ambassadors. His fingers drummed the tabletop between them. "I'd really like to know, Woeburne. What's going on in here tonight? What does someone like you stand to gain from business with someone like me? Because I know you ain't here to make peace."

Serena was searing the Anarch's rings with a concentrated look of malice when she realized his questions had stopped. "Don't mistake me. I'm not here to endorse anything, Mr. Rodriguez. Nor am I here to gain anything. I am representing my Sire's interests and those of our organization," was her justification. Gold earrings caught powerful shine from the nearby bulb, flashed her nose and collarbone of color; derelict dark corners gulped everything else. The Ventrue's brunette bob had been pinned back into a neat, disciplinarian twist. Steamed shirtsleeves poked past the gray blazer; excess fabric draped past the cuffs, over weak wrists full of potent blue veins.

"I'm sure that's true, Woeburne." The Brujah looked belligerently elsewhere as he said so, as though she did not concern him, and he had much better things to do. It would have been easy to upend the table and pull off her head. That's what you did when snakes got to bothering you. Insulting how much easier it would be for troopers like that to pull out a submachine and shoot him five, ten, twenty ties in the unarmored expanse of stomach and chest.

Two could play the big-fish game. Neither was as bored or lukewarm as boasts and bland acting tried to suggest. Their companions were a mix of tension, distaste and stark, federal nothingness in a building where people once went to get help.

"I won't take up much of your time," she announced, counterfeit politeness. "Mr. LaCroix has requested I meet with you this evening as an extension of his goodwill, and as evidence of our integrity. We have a proposition for you."

"Bullshit." It cannonballed out. Ms. Woeburne glanced up at him with flimsily-veiled disapproval.

"Mr. Rodriguez. Please." She scribbled something illegible onto her notepad. It was a nervous reaction, a student sleeping through a lecture, feinting to write while her mind ran loops. Still, the Foreman was pretty steady for someone who'd been duct-taped to a folding chair in his storage hold less than a month-and-a-half ago. For all those servile, pureblood things about S. Woeburne that pissed him off, this was one trait the Anarch genuinely did appreciate - whatever that word meant when told to your enemy. Composure was rare in underlings, rarer in the under-eighties, and besides that: it was sort of amusing to watch the disgruntled lackey try and steel herself. She might've snapped that pen in two. "This is meant to be an outreach. It's a token of the Prince's desire to communicate with you on civil terms. He sent his own Childe to discuss this with you - evidently - and done so as a sign we must put the past behind us. If that is not adequate proof of my Sire's sincerity..."

"It's adequate proof he's a son-of-a-bitch bureaucrat who makes his kids into flag-bearers then pushes them into the crossfire," the old Baron snorted. One of his soles squealed the linoleum, actual anger, sudden energy. He sat upright too quickly. She did not flinch. "It's adequate proof you're stupid enough to double-over and take it. You waltzed back into my Domain because _what_? Promotions coming up? Christmas bonus? Maybe it'd make Pa proud? Jesus, Cam. What do you honestly figure-"

"With all due respect, this is not 'your' Domain, Mr. Rodriguez. But I'm not here to debate boundaries."

Nines bit his teeth together, arteries stinging up and down both arms. Serena stared at him from behind thinly-shaved lenses. Her tone had been level through all the apprehension – a scripted response, something lawman deliver – but it set Rodriguez's nerves crackling, set his eyes aglow with bad karma. Silver-spoon, ignorant errand girl. He smoothed his temper down; tightened his lips around the dangerous teeth; managed a long, gritting exhale.

"Get on with it, Woeburne," the Anarch growled out. She blinked, immobile, ready for a kill-order. His fists flexed over the knotholes. "You're starting to test my patience. What do you people want from us? Don't give me a speech."

Serena observed him expressionlessly for another moment through the shadows they sat in. Glints of silver and iron on the tabletop; above them, enamel and metallic blue. She relocated her spectacles. "Very well. This is only a preliminary, Mr. Rodriguez. It was meant to judge your willingness and, given recent events, your… your openness," the Ventrue decided – carefully, "to peaceful dialogue." When he did not protest, she carried on. "Prince LaCroix asked me introduce to you the possibility of a neutral summit between our parties. Chinatown represents a growing threat. In anticipation of this threat, he hopes to discuss armistice. If you are receptive to the idea, we will send out a cabinet speaker with more information; I, unfortunately, cannot provide you with any."

"Course not." He glanced over her shoulder at one of the gunmen. The nondescript Ventrue darkened, sneering, an equally nondescript threat of contempt.

"I _can_ tell you, however, that your attendance will be determinate." The woman's stare shifted from her useless paper to a spot of air directly behind Nines's head. She did not look at his comrades. She had no prerogative or interest in them. "My Sire may not like you, Mr. Rodriguez," she said, a mechanical recital, face static, "and I am sure the feeling is mutual. But he takes your opinion seriously."

"_Mhm_." The Brujah tilted forward to study her watch; he hadn't worn one. She took instant offense. Serena removed the arm from their table and placed it beneath, over her lap, out of sight. "So seriously he's going to send a tin-soldier to talk politics with me. Hell of a proposition that is. Look, it's possible I'm confused - got my terminology wrong. But seems to me that you came out here - not to negotiate a treaty - but to see if maybe I'd be open to meeting with your people. And, uh." A flat, sardonic glance at Ms. Woeburne and her ubiquitous notebook. "What would you call this?"

She said nothing. The Prince's Childe looked troubled, blinking at him from beneath furrowed eyebrows.

Nines heaved a sigh. "Count on the Ventrue to call five conferences to get one done. I was real clear with you on the telephone, Woeburne. I said _a _shot," he grunted. "I didn't say two. If what you're taking about is a legitimate offer, and my input is priority, you'll take advantage of this very exclusive opportunity and lay down _exactly_ what LaCroix expects from me before I walk."

"As I've already made a note of pointing out: I don't know." A cosmopolitan pitch, yes, and a passive one - but at that moment, Woeburne slipped precariously towards a sass. Perhaps she was recalling the previous occasion in which they discussed how much information was at her broken fingertips. "I'm frankly not sure what it is you want me to say."

Rodriguez's knuckles began drumming the furniture, an uneasy rhythm. Each beat set Serena's masseter muscle one stitch tighter. Her henchmen looked ready to aim, chamber, fire. "That's too bad, then. Guess we wasted our time. Anything else you want my _opinion_ on, princess? Weather? Sports? Seems like politics are out, but we could always argue religion."

"I'd like you to reconsider." She upheld her diplomatic gloss with some difficulty. It was not a friendly _like_. "This is a very important olive branch. We trust you will not dismiss it out-of-turn."

"Think the Dodgers'll do anything this season?"

Serena's palm heel walloped the table, fluttering a rim of her notebook. Eyelids swooping to half-mast, Nines smiled at her. "If I may give you a piece of professional advice. I'd take this very, _very_ seriously," the Foreman warned, straight-faced, but just barely. It was an ominous aside. He could tell LaCroix's disdainful witch was roughly two more offenses from ditching decorum and screaming at him at the top of her awful little lungs. Control was hard-won, not explicit, but an easy board to tilt beneath forced blueblood calm. "You offered me one shot, so I'll offer you one, too. Our Prince is eager for a response. A _real_ response - something you have been notified about, and failed to give, several times before. Leave us no other option and you might find the nature of those notices change entirely. This is a scapegoat he's set aside for you. And I have no intentions of returning to him with nothing but-"

"So you've got more hoops to jump through this evening. And… this is my concern how? I'm not going to drop my pants to make life more convenient for some Ventrue bitch with daddy issues."

"I am trying to make this crystal clear for you, you smug son-of-a-bitch." Scepter danced a handbreadth from dual slugs in the gut when she hunkered forward. Both her hands slapped flat upon the countertop, fingers spread wide. Delicate canines peeked behind a curled upper lip. Woeburne was more dangerous than she sometimes let on: a pocketbook, a pistol and a deadly short-fuse. They were flammable combinations, and when you gave her a good shove, the safety trigger flew off. "You can mock me, but you know better than to mock this organization. You've learned your lesson there, I think. And you'll sober quickly if you intend to stay where you are in LA. Your worshippers may chase at your heels in that dive of theirs, and you may play at being a king, but your heyday has passed. Los Angeles knows that. We all know that. There is nothing forcing us to strike treaties with you, Rodriguez, and I promise you won't like the alternative. Your holdings – your life on the line – on _our_ line – and you think you can…"

"My life on the line? That didn't sound peaceful. More you talk, the more I'm starting to rethink tonight," Nines threatened; his agenda cooled the temper he had. The Brujah's pointed look made no ceremony of its challenge. "In fact, I'm thinking I don't want a damn thing to do with anything you touch, Woeburne. You say I need to take this offer seriously, but you're the one getting hysterical. Here's a warning." His glare caught hers, low indignation; old feuds that boiled back before this despaired hospital, before the city it sat in, and long before either one of them. "You ever raise your voice at me again, I tell my 'worshippers' over at that 'dive' of theirs that you're no longer a protected species. Then we can discuss exactly when my _day_ is over."

"All right - enough," she snorted, quills shivering. The severity in this room was genuine – the intimidation tactics dug – but it was mostly showmanship, a ritual testing of each other's limits. You had to shake Ventrue a little bit. Then you had to move on. "There's no need for this. This is pointless. And it's irrelevant. We are being more than reasonable," Serena laid out, her doctrines ironclad. She settled gradually back down in the seat. "But as an ambassador for my Sire, I owe you no further explanation than the one he gave. We included you in these matters at Mr. LaCroix's personal discretion, and that is tremendously significant. You must recognize it. You must recognize how singular an overture like this is. Do you imagine I'm going to believe a competent public figure would handle such a thing so lightly? No, he would not. And neither would you. So please, let's discuss it, but let's not confuse our issues. This is politics. But t_his_," the agent spat, flicking her finger back-and-forth between them, "has nothing to do with the Camarilla. _This_ is still about the very unfortunate incident with that mother-fucking truck. Isn't it?"

Skelter shifted stridently beside comrade and commander. Playboy looked like he was watching good TV.

The capacity for threats was a valuable black-tie trait; even then, Woeburne still had a powerful naked vein buried beneath her brand of corporate dignity. One couldn't usually see it. Her practice packed that live wire down, but twist the knife deep enough, and it'd start to smoke through all that company stuffing. "Cool down, blueblood. You're making my gunmen tense. Just where would this good-faith meeting take place?"

For the first time since their disastrous incident on Interstate 10, the Foreman compromised. She filled both lungs, dropped two sets of claws into her knees, and coughed into a fist. The Kindred's elocution was excellent. He imagined LaCroix would have tolerated nothing less. "Santa Monica Pier, July twenty-sixth, at ten o'clock PM. That is neutral ground. It is highly defensible, and should be well-enough removed for us to speak freely. We thought you would feel more comfortable outside our immediate influence."

Serena monitored quietly as the Anarch mulled it over. Rodriguez's back pushed into the insubstantial chair, mouth turned downwards; one hand deserted its slung-out position across their table and rubbed hard at his jaw. Mercury eyes were darkly ringed and met no one. Neither Gangrel nor Toreador had counsel; they stood immutable, unflappable and silent on either side of Good Samaritan's exit door.

"Fine," the Brujah finally chuffed. "_We_ will be there. I make absolutely no promises, but I can tolerate hearing the Prince's lawyers talk. Don't let my willingness to cooperate with you bloodsuckers go unnoticed by this city's upper circles. And London."

"Yes," she said - no leeway, no question-mark, no indication of relief or happiness behind the green animosity of Ventrue glare.

His was a pickaxe to the ribs. "If you are in any way fucking with me, your life is forfeit," Nines pledged. A fork in the side; a cloudburst of ill will in the Baron's tone. "You should know that I will have my best people on orders to keep you in their crosshairs until this mess is resolved. Anything goes wrong, I blame you. If LaCroix's boy isn't there – some bootlicker gets out-of-line – your head goes flying. That is my promise. So. Scamper back home and make sure those bastards know that if they try to waste me, better shoot to kill. Because if I live, if I want, I will personally squeeze the black out of your heart. And you can tell Papa Warbucks that. Is this clear?"

Serena did not move. Her arms ran a pale numb from elbow to fingertip upon the rickety countertop. She swallowed.

"What makes you think this changes things?" the operative asked, mildly curious, but that Patrician loftiness had scattered into something more subdued. Spit-shined Tahitian pearls cackled around her collarbone. Bright and cyanotic, the carotid plunged beneath them, curling around the back of Woeburne's ear and disappearing into product-burnt brown hair.

"It doesn't. Not for me. Just consider what I told you as a little incentive for you - good reason to cut your losses now, back out if there's something you're not telling me." There was and there wasn't. Rodriguez's eyebrow twitched. "Otherwise, my professional advice is not to sweat all the fine print too much, Ventrue; it's not as though there's actually a goddamn thing you can do about it. If, like you say, LaCroix does value this arrangement - and it pans out well - then I guess there's nothing to worry about. If he doesn't…" A clack of the tongue, an unnerving statement chased with a shrug. "Well. Not exactly my problem, London."

Woeburne had not flinched once since Nines underlined her death-threats. Her profile was up, forearms adhered to the table. Baron might begin to wonder if she'd settled down in a puddle of super-glue - then, without warning, animation burst; the notebooks and stiff hands became a torrent of paper and goose bumps.

"I'm not from London," she sniffed, collecting her loose-leaf forgetting her pen. "I'm from Leeds."

"Would you really rather I call you 'Leeds,' London?"

She rapped her documents against tabletop to straighten them, thought this proposition over, and sighed. It was an eloquent, honest expression of fatigue. "I suppose not. I don't care. But once more, just so that we do not misunderstand one another: may I tell my Sire that you have agreed to the twenty-sixth?"

"I don't give a shit what you tell him, Woeburne. I'll be out there long before your people arrive. But for now, I'm done with you." And the Anarch rose, a fast action that rose both automatics of those faceless Camarilla guards. Playboy and Skelter reacted, stiffening to defend, shotgun barrels at the Foreman's breastbone. Nines commanded them down. Having launching upright, startled by the flamboyant little gun show, LaCroix's Childe realized she ought to do the same and waved her protectors away.

"I understand. I'll relay this and confirm with you one week before the event." Serena gave a terse nod with a triangular chin, one arm hugging her notepad between tricep and ribcage. Finally, unmistakably, she looked relieved. The blanched, severe countenance smoothed marginally - but, notably, the woman did not shake his hand. "Thank you for speaking with me on short notice, Mr. Rodriguez. And for speaking with me, at all."

Nines frowned. Hers was a hollow thank-you; the bulblight had gotten too hot, too persistent, a nuisance on brow, arms, face. It made his mouth stern. "Don't get yourself too hung up, Cam. This is a preliminary," he reminded, quoting her, meaning it to be a joke. Nobody noticed. She left her lamp on, not caring about the Brujah's squint, not drawing parallels between the dead way his eyes looked through two different derelict rooms. "It ain't no big thing."

"Isn't," shot off her tongue before Ms. Woeburne could leave or think better.

Rodriguez stopped mid-turn. LaCroix's ambassador was still preoccupied with her briefcase and the wrinkles in a puritanical pencil skirt. "Isn't what?"

"Isn't a," she clarified. Clasps snapped into place along her neat leather report carrier. Ms. Woeburne - clicking shut buckles, goals met, her business complete - seemed unconcerned with what rolled between those annoyingly white teeth, but everyone else sure as fuck was. The stone-faced bodyguards began to look uncomfortable. She was thoughtlessly triumphant. "It 'isn't a' big thing."

Nines stared at her in something that could've been amazement.

He thought about saying something, thought enough to start - but, that light still hot and the Ventrue still disastrous - didn't bother, shook his head, and strolled out into the dark of downtown.


	36. Greensleeves

**Greensleeves **

As it tended to do every summer, July twenty-sixth rolled across California, and Ms. Serena Woeburne was still very much alive.

'_Somewhat dead, to be accurate,' _the Ventrue corrected herself; it was her own private snicker. It petered, though, when she set out to impress - set out to show off her relative undeadness - and got a neat little barrette hopelessly stuck onto her head.

"Of course. Of course I did. That's cute. That's just perfect," Serena spat, sucking lipstick off her teeth. A sizable mess of brunette was snarled around the crescent, umber wrapping diamonds, strands pulling out. Tugging the damned thing only snagged it firmer; twisting devolved everything around it into a knotted, gnarly mat. Woeburne wrestled for nearly ten minutes. It took yanking out one rather alarming handful of hair before she gave up and hunted down scissors. '_You can barter-down the public enemy - have a good blackmail, oh, yes - but you just wait until the bloody party.' _

Standing there in her suite kitchen – blades barely fit for printer paper eating a hairsprayed fork of brown – Prince LaCroix's Childe was surprised how unglamorous being "still alive" for this gala turned out to be.

Serena had, however, managed to keep her fitting appointment (just barely), a fortunate thing for her otherwise unfortunate relationship with Joelle Lefevre. Less fortunately, this dress still hugged like spandex on a poorly-posed mannequin. The cowled neck was archaic, clashed strangely with a modern length; snug black sleevelessness synched the woman's bone structure awkwardly. She compensated with a sash and a belt, cornflower silk and silver buckle, but nevertheless looked more like some feeble attempt at _Toreador chic _than a respectable Foreman. A floss-fragile necklace she knew would snap off during the night was downplayed in white gold. Her sandals were pretentious, outdatedly Roman. Tinted glasses lay parked beside the sink. Her lipstick was stupidly blue.

If she could only get this worthless barrette out, perhaps tonight would be Ms. Woeburne's first local event that didn't involve a disaster.

Free again (translation: she hacked the clip off), Serena pitched that small annoyance into a trash can, its thunk a minor relief. But the Ventrue dug it back out. She needn't give Sebastian any more excuses to be mad at her; broken jewelry wouldn't burn holes in Foundation accounts, obviously, but it wasn't particularly wise or mannerly to give some ghoul janitor the notion Ms. Woeburne bought finery just to throw something away. Prince LA was generous with those who served him well. Like his descendant, he was not, however, appreciative of waste.

And by no means could this descendant afford to irritate the man who made her again.

One terse, cool letter had arrived in Serena's inbox after their condemned-lobby counsel with the Anarch Party. It vented no rage or stung feelings; it was not foul tidings, apart from a general air of disapproval, and the author's brusque tone.

**Dear Miss Woeburne**, Sebastian wrote**:**

**I forgive you.**

**A chauffeur will arrive at eight o'clock on the twenty-sixth. Kindly take care not to be late.**

**Best,**

**SL**

**P.S. We all must solve our own problems in this world, Serena. But in the future, be first assured that these problems are actually yours to solve.**

Ms. Woeburne did not bother typing out a transcript of that evening in Good Samaritan Hospital. She was almost certain both 'bodyguards' Mlle. Lefevre referred to her were doubling as spies. _Fine_. Excellent, in fact. The Foreman had nothing to hide – let them report her loyalty, composure and steadfast perseverance to their Prince. Normally such a Jyhadist act would indicate distrust and therefore bruise Serena's feelings, but if this was truly the only way she might earn back her employer's confidence, then so be it. The sin in question had been a frightened error in judgment, not treason; no doubt Sebastian would've been much less forgiving, otherwise, and far more aggressive about it than cold, patronizing e-mails.

No matter how innocent her bungles had been, patching things up between Childe and Sire remained a precarious game. Their court positions made prickly egos even pricklier. A Prince's pardon, terse as it sounded, was all Ventrue fledglings ought to hope for after such a blatant security breach, best intentions aside. Still, Serena could not claim she looked forward to discussing her lengthy list of shortcomings with him. Granted: stern lectures were preferable to being staked, swathed in fat construction chain and publicly beheaded, so _count your blessings_ applied well in city Boards. Perhaps you might even consider the lightness of his threats as a sign of affection for a learning protégé, indirect and backhanded as it felt. Or perhaps Mr. LaCroix simply didn't consider her occasional political bumble significant enough to cause any lasting damage. Either way, Ms. Woeburne - pompous little head firmly, wonderfully attached - couldn't really complain. _'Any one you walk away from, I suppose.'_

She dabbed a stinging flake of mascara out of one eye, heard her buzzer ring, flung on a gauzy shawl and scuttled downstairs.

The car ride – as they usually tended to be (at least when one was not thwarting assassinations or seduce sweaty-palmed anthropologists) – proved unremarkable. Serena let her posture to go to hell for the seventy-minutes into Los Angeles's north suburbs, since she'd surely be straight as a bargepole until closing time. _'Or at least until Sebastian decides it's time to cut me loose.' _Ms. Woeburne honestly didn't see the necessity of her presence at this overblown cocktail. It wasn't as though Mr. LaCroix was beamingly proud of his Childe (especially not at the moment); in fact, he had yet to properly present her, something she couldn't decide how to feel about. Perhaps he never would. This did not trouble the Foreman much, however. She recognized her backstage place was content with it - so long as, that is, her Sire remained content with her._  
_

Ah, well. Reason didn't mean peanuts when it came to formal affairs. Serena wouldn't have _dreamed_ of trying to weasel her way out of this venture, even before the unbecoming Anarch interference. Good impressions were far too important to Sebastian in a dual-brained Domain that still heard Free-State sabers rattling their sheaths. And there was no bloody way she'd play hooky after last week. _'Forget decapitation. If I called in sick tonight, Mr. LaCroix would have my eyeballs replaced with dynamite; light me off like a business-class sparkler.' _Zip, pop! Wouldn't it be a perfect piece of imperial entertainment? Wouldn't _that_ be a conversation starter.

Ms. Woeburne cleared her throat, pinched the bridge of her nose.

_'Yes,'_ she thought as the driver turned left and rough asphalt fell to manicured, fertilized grass. _'I could certainly use that vacation.'_

But where? At this point, Serena observed with a snort, skedaddling home to the bluster and boredom London sounded restful. _'Slinking back to the penny-pinchers and the paperwork? To Roderick's bellyaching one step past my door? Depressing. That won't do; I require a proper holiday. Inland - no fish, no piers, no surfers. Somewhere landlocked, clean and Camarilla. Thoroughly Camarilla. Maybe Vienna.' _That would be an interesting classroom experience in Tremere etiquette, if nothing else. The Prince's Childe had never been to their capital city, an uncultured fact which seemed embarrassing. Besides – Kindred politics aside, pretentious mages seemed like a fitting distraction from California. America's West Coast was a traumatic muddle of interest conflict. Church-spotting and pony shows had never been this Ventrue's thing, per se, but neither were Anarchs, and Free-State riots are front-and-center for main attractions in metropolitan LA. They did not appeal to her sense of propriety. And they certainly did not appeal to anyone who could be cut open to dark DNA from Sebastian LaCroix.

There was quite a lot of Sebastian LaCroix bleeding through Serena these nights. And there was quite a lot she stood to lose it to.

She flattened her dress, tipped her chauffeur sixty dollars, and stepped out onto the crunching Astroturf of _la Camera del Giovanni_.

**II.**

Within the next hour, Serena was sitting at a cloth-draped gateleg, toying with a glass candle and listening to her Sire unbolt a speech.

Prince Los Angeles – apparently deciding his opening speaker wasn't adequate – had beat the poor Ventrue orator onstage. His clip was a little unusually hasty for politicians who shared their ranks with royalty, but the affect of an executive upon new allies was instant. The echo of his shoes on that platform pealed idle conversation to a halt. Applause led in like a hearse; it was a terrible metaphor, Serena admitted, but a relevant one. He did not hesitate before the banquet hall. He did not trouble himself with the event schedule. Assertiveness a fitting quality against Romanesque architecture, Mr. LaCroix simply stepped up to the podium, and placed both hands on polished obsidian face. Everyone got smartly quiet. You could see, beneath the diplomat veneer, he was not particularly pleased to be be there.

But two beats later, the Prince smiled anyway – grand expression, false and necessary. Blond burned slick beneath colorless overheads, a haze of sharp teeth and fair complexion. The auditorium light was overly sanitary, and drew a blade across both shoulders of Mr. LaCroix's new suit; it was an ill-fitting, summer-white. He looked like a TV Baptist. Ms. Woeburne, having seen her Sire only in blues and blacks, thought it a carnival notion. She felt her eyebrows leap. She almost burst out laughing.

Which would have been a distinctly bad career move.

"Friends," Sebastian began. He forced clement, sophisticate charisma, one that did not enjoy itself. (Probably because he'd bitching up a storm about these so-called "friends" aboard a homebound limousine.) "I am pleased that you could join us here to witness the bind and tying of a very important knot. I think I speak for all of us when I say that this alliance is sadly past due. But before we move into the business portion of this evening, let us first take a moment apart to thank our gracious hosts for the celebration they have shared with us. Please show your appreciation to the patron of this family: Mr. Bruno Giovanni. Bruno?"

Polite palm-pats, carriage-on-cobblestone, showered the clan's graying patriarch, his bulldog jowls wrinkling from where he sat at an adjacent table. Bruno was an old-money vampire who looked every bit the gruff, ill-tempered brute his niece described; he wouldn't spare a grin, even for public adulation, or for the vicious happiness of a Prince. Ms. Woeburne felt gratified to know she was one of only three aware his pompous disregard would plummet in about fifteen minutes. (The rest of this very exclusive club included Mira and Mr. LaCroix themselves, fine elbows to rub, a kibble of detail that made Serena even more pleased with herself. Politically insignificant… maybe. But she was without a doubt right in the smack-dab-center of Los Angeles's loop.)

_'What all go-to-girls think, I'm sure,' _Woeburne, ever the cynic, reminded herself, sinking so low as to quote Jeanette Voerman's cute term. Therese was here tonight, she realized, and hoped they would not be forced into mingling at some sidelines corner, laughing at one another's snobbish puns. _Oh, well_. If one must be a minion, they might as well cater to the local magnate. Serena stopped clapping long enough to trace one fingernail around her melting candlestick. Bright wax, the color of dahlias, pooled a volcano before slumping down the far side. She took a bored, agreeable sip of chilled _A+_ and listened to Sebastian talk. It sounded like an election bid.

"Yes – thank you, Bruno," the Mr. LaCroix said. He returned his outstretched hand to the podium as applause peppered out. "Half of us here tonight know him as a father-figure. But to those who may only recently be making Mr. Giovanni's acquaintance, I, personally, vouch for his character," the Ventrue reassured, meaningless approval from a suspicious, arrogant man. "I knew Bruno had a place with this organization the day we met. 'Prince,' he said to me, 'I am glad to finally talk seriously about pooling our resources. But I have to be honest. How can I know that the Camarilla is the right choice for our clan? We are quite different people, and haven't always been the best of neighbors.' All true and valid points. 'Well, my friend,' I told him. 'I am originally a Frenchman, and you are as Italian as Italian blood comes. So we have one important thing in common.'" A pause; a two-beat punch-line. Sebastian offered a small, nationalist, self-depreciating smile. "'We both think 'proletariat' is a type of cheese.'"

Oh, _no_.

There was an immediate boom of overstated laughter. Mr. LaCroix was neither charming nor amusing – could manufacture these traits when it suited him – but one thing was certain: you _always_ laugh at a Prince's jokes. Ms. Woeburne did not excuse herself from this rule of thumb; she pushed out a chuckle. Pink resin was speckling the immaculate tablecloth. There was a groan languishing beneath her high regard.

"In all seriousness." Sebastian leant forward, and everyone's humor sanded away. Persian blue surveyed them as one bland, commonplace unit; he was a senate whip over a room full of monochrome suits and luxuriant dress. His voice was steady. Serena imagined she was alone in feeling its contempt. "I understand that the circumstances under which we meet are exceptional. They may come as a surprise to some, and on both sides of the spectrum. Yet what is more surprising to me is that our two factions have coexisted for so long without either extending a hand. In a changing Los Angeles, the time has come to move beyond antiquated treaties gathering dust in some Harpy's keep. We must – as is our nature – continue to evolve with the voracious pace of this world. The Giovanni have realized their potential through political pioneering and diligent study. The Camarilla have realized theirs with entrepreneurship and clean, concise direction. So, then. Let us, valued friends, do away with this unproductive silence; let us move beyond the deadlock, and hold ourselves above vague and hurtful rumors. Let us instead unite into a coalition that is as stalwart and sustaining as our bloodlines. Together we will strengthen this city, our respective families, and the security of both for what – I am sure – will be many prosperous years to come. With confidence and sincerity, we enter into this alliance to make our Domain a safer place for us all."

Yes, yes, yes. He is outstanding and humble and a Prince. What else was new?

The assembly's agreement was full bore for a mixed crowd. Giovanni heirs gave vocal approval regardless of their varying private opinions. Primogen rose around Mr. LaCroix's waiting table; Serena anxiously stood, too, embarrassed at having been late about it, applauding loudly to apologize. Only the grand columns were a silent, stony regiment. Stoic riflemen bowed their chins so much as they dared.

Sebastian seemed happy enough with himself, and it was a job well done.

"Colleagues, with no further ado, please extend your welcome to my newest cabinet member and Family representative." And the Prince stepped back from his post, glorifying the announcement, swept one crisp sleeve offstage. It looked to be a premonition. "Ms. Mira Luciana Giovanni."

Bruno's face plummeted like a Golden Gate suicide.

When Mira trotted across up for her dues, smile large and unsuppressed and threatening to splinter her cheeks, the affluent uncle changed. No one watched, no one spoke. Their overshot don devolved in seconds into the sallow, postmortem monster he was beneath Italian cut and gold. Hoary eyes bulged in the sockets. Massive fists, white tufts scabbing the fingers, clenched upon a wooden chair back. By the time his niece stepped into Mr. LaCroix's handshake – corset laces, red stilettos, dramatic black shadow glittering from lid to brow beneath strident lights – Bruno had bitten straight through the rage. He fogged betrayal. And yet you could do nothing to stop them, these civility plots, nor could down-payments halt Jyhad. He could not derail the train of progress, the next replacement, the the forward push of patricidal young. He could only stall there, silent, stripped callow of power by an ambitious and candy-faced girl. When her name hit open air, the old Giovanni had already been standing up.

Bruno's advisory circle had never arrived. This should have been his first clue. Although he did not know it yet, three Mercedes of senior loyalists were currently leaking through their bullet-ridden windows and onto the moist black asphalt of State Route 110.

Mira embraced Sebastian's outstretched palm with all the enthusiasm of a junior partner. They grinned theatrically at one another, but Serena could see the former's expression was genuine. "Thank you, Prince," she announced, lip gloss curling into Cheshire twists. The young Giovanni was thrilled. Her face and body radiated cattish joy, an unspoken co-conspirator, a wicked golden child. Her words were rehearsed; they burst at their seams. She turned to the audience glowing like a pregnant kine. (Ms. Woeburne was perceptive enough to notice that, throughout this celebration, her smiling Sire kept one hand firmly upon the pulpit. He would not be supplanted - even by colleagues, even by cabinets, even by snakes he'd handtrapped and milked.) "And thanks so much to you, my dear family and friends. Firstly, I would like to say how fortunate, how grateful and how truly privileged I am to accept this alliance. What we're seeing here tonight is an amazing opportunity. Cousins, I promise you as your kin not to squander a moment of my service to the Camarilla Court. New partners, I know we have a long and prosperous future ahead of us. Mr. LaCroix has been an inspiring force and an incredible mentor and I am deeply honored to accept a position on his committee. I believe in the Prince's vision for a better Los Angeles and I will do everything within my capabilities to help him achieve this vision."

So she was not as self-assured a speaker as Sebastian LaCroix. Who was, really?

Regardless of their speech disparity - of the contrast between a director and his House - Mira was complimented with healthy applause. She stared at Bruno as though he were a plump, thick-necked dartboard in a charcoal suit. The look between them locked. You could feel the odium; the knowledge of winning, the humiliation of loss; the black magic justice of being wronged by a man, left filthy and bleeding, then cutting his neck. And when the eye contact was gone, that look somehow remained. It seared as she shook Prince LA's hand again and they dismounted the stage. It had all but caught fire by the time Serena's Sire – manners as curt as his nature, having almost forgotten – double-took midway, turning back to offer Mira one arm, to assist her down the short stairs. His courtesy was a blatant gesture of showmanship that she took; usurped and usurper no longer need communicate; their exchange was concrete and plainly seen.

Bruno had vanished before they were flat on the floor. Two panic-stricken Rosselinis also disappeared, leaving the portholed door swinging into a kitchen full of ice. Ms. Woeburne doubted anyone would ever see them again.

Ugly succession complete, socialites and rank-climbers could recover their by-and-large genial atmosphere. They filled a brisk July midnight with inane chatter and ostentatious chortles - the aftertaste of coups complete. A small music ensemble entered tightly on Sebastian's heels, already off-schedule and struggling to set up equipment. Their shuffling grated everyone until an alto saxophone replaced it; tinny, unemotive, but technically precise. Mr. LaCroix had obviously chosen them himself. That meant Joelle would doubtless come scurrying out in short order; it annoyed Serena, but do you know what? _C'est la vie._ Let the scarlet chanteuse ponder that napkinful of cultural wisdom; hopefully the mockery would not be lost upon her, as well.

Not about be beaten by Los Angeles's Primogen a second time, Ms. Woeburne stood like a slingshot soldier when her Prince returned. Progenitor sat coolly beside descendant at one hemisphere of their hefty round table; Mira occupied a chair at his left, sadistic festivity, while Serena held fort in the right wing. _'Right Wing,'_ the somber Ventrue mused as they scooted back in. She swept a nervous hand across her inflexible hair._ 'Of course we would be sitting here.'  
_

No longer center-stage and not at all sad about it, Sebastian picked up his champagne glass, upsetting the blood inside with one slack, ambivalent stir. Crystal clinked when it left the place-setting. Burgundy rolled. He hoisted a casual toast in the exuberant, chittering Ms. Giovanni's direction; then he leaned back, let her take the next speech, and didn't bother drinking. His expression looked tired. His ivory sleeves matched the table-spread.

"Well," Mr. LaCroix said to his Childe, smiling emptily at Mira all the while. "That's over with."

Ms. Woeburne's eyebrow quirked. She drew one ring finger around the mouth of her goblet and murmured back: "Vampire pageant wearing on you, sir?"

Her Sire's mouth twitched into something that looked like a smirk - his expression was cruel and self-serving, but what she'd said had been true enough to be funny, too. It gave Serena a bubble of optimism. The Prince's eyes were ink with dislike, but he never stopped casting cordial, communicative glances to personages of note. "I always did say you were clever, Ms. Woeburne," Sebastian remarked. His sarcasm was obvious, but perhaps not totally meant. "Believe me when I also say that you have _no_ idea. Although I have the fullest confidence you will. Someday. Preferably not for another few decades, however." He drank. They'd been served a decent vintage, not remarkable. Mr. LaCroix didn't care for it, and with newfound disrespect for the Giovanni taste, put his cup back down. "You could stand to learn a great deal here. In overtures like this one, an administrator has to cajole without catering too much. And the Los Angeles sharks, I have found, can be particularly hard-to-impress."

Someone please help her; Ms. Woeburne bit her tongue not to blurt out: _"And this audience is totally dead!"_

It wasn't much later Joelle indeed did make her way into the limelight - not half as flittering or contemptuous as she typically was. On the contrary, Lefevre all but strode onstage: lolling hips and raspberry lips, butterscotch twist of hair wound back into pearls like a flamenco dancer, like she finally fell into her element. The Toreador must have been encouraged by her evening wear, Serena decided. It was suitable decadence for self-romanced people: overblown, eye-catching, grandiose. Dramatic silk over every impossible slope of that equally dramatic frame, five feet and nine inches of narcissism; train curtaining coral heels; cut dangerously backless, shoulders ruffled. And, of course, every stitch of the outlandish thing was flowering carmine. Ms. Woeburne found it absolutely ridiculous. But then again, Ms. Woeburne found most everything to do with Venture Tower's second-choice to be absolutely ridiculous.

Nobody had said a damn thing about her own gown or the way it fit, by the way. An unimportant detail, perhaps, but one Serena sharply noticed after the pale scarlet wake that had chided her, so easily, not to show up in a suit.

"It was Joelle, you know," Mr. LaCroix noted then, a terrible thing to say to such a conceited woman, ringing blood around his chalice. Until then, both Ventrue had been watching the pretty creature with a sort of amused, resentful superiority shared between Sire and Child. "Miss Joelle," he repeated, almost pitying, bored and sidelong as Lefevre touched a corkscrew curl of caramel. "Who hoisted the red flag on you."

The green of Ms. Woeburne's eye was woody confusion, then storybook fury, then lustrous, minty alarm. _'That bitch!'_ It hit her like lightning. Prying, fluffed-up, bothersome waste of undeath! She must have sniffed something strange about her coworker's data morgue check-ins - followed, found the right computer, tracked down every accessed file. The thought of being routed by that flouncing fashion rack was mortifying. It served up _double_ cheek-slaps, too; Serena was usually so religious about wiping her browsing history, deleting holdovers, securing herself. She'd told Rodriguez it was a damned unreasonable timeframe – that three days made for reckless investigations, slipshod service.

_'And that toffee-nosed lapdog turned me in without bothering to consult me first? Bitch,' _she thought again._ 'Nasty, conniving bitch!'_ Never mind that "consulting" Ms. Woeburne in this instance would mean tipping-off a potential defector. Never mind company policies or intelligence threats or how likely Ventrue corruption was - corruption of the kind they witnessed here tonight. For now, Lefevre was nothing to her but an air-brained, worthless, yapping puppydog bitch. The implications were worse, still! – possibilities so horrid they could barely be faced whilst sitting handsomely at Los Angeles's A-list table. God, was Joelle _cunning_? Was Joelle not, in fact, the incompetent creampuff she acted?

Mr. LaCroix watched his better spy with a bored, belittling distance. He was not looking at Ms. Woeburne. "The poor thing; perhaps I shouldn't be so hard on her. Either way, she's served me well, and that is what matters most in court." That said, Sebastian switched his gaze from preening Toreador peacock to edgy blueblood jackdaw. Clan Ventrue was a member of the crow family. Mira, crow herself, gabbed cheerfully with Claudia Fairholm across their desert of a tabletop, face alight, gestures elated, graduating to a bigger fish.

"I have no idea what to say to you," Serena admitted; that was it. Her fingers and belly and toes felt like the ice cubes in her cup.

"I imagine you don't. But you can untie your tongue; there's no need to pussyfoot, no more so than before. While I was not very impressed with your failure to confide in me, your deftness in retrieving what you sought is something I find admirable about you. It is familiar, in a way," the Prince disclosed, considering this visibly, a crease in the plane of his brow. "And it's true: we did not bemoan Carroll's death. He was an unscrupulous informant; someone whose uses were wearing thin. I don't appreciate what you did. But one might even say things turned out well in the end, didn't they?"

He smiled at her. She managed one back, though the pipes behind the teeth were close to clogged shut.

"I will have to think on a punishment for your transgressions, however," Mr. LaCroix went on. Serena felt her stomach plunge. "Success can't wholly overwrite disobedience. While I am entitled to show you a little preference, of course, I cannot exempt you from discipline. It would disrespect our structure here," he confessed, patted her forearm, and offered an apologetic little shrug. Ms. Woeburne had a deadened wreath of solar plexus. It might have echoed inside her ribs. "Don't worry. Nothing too dire. Perhaps I can find a community service project for you."

As quickly as the nausea had come, it was undermined with hope, a taste of lemon-bake relief across her tongue. "Community service" wasn't too foul penance for skirting around security protocols, all things considered. She embraced her sentence with a puffed semi-breath. "I understand. I deserve it," Serena lied. Honesty was a critical block of any stable society, but you never hurt yourself by polishing an apple or two. "And I am sorry." (This was not a lie.) "I know everyone says that, but I really and truly am. It was arrogance. I couldn't jeopardize your armistice with Hollywood, so I… well. I tried to handle it. Perhaps it was wrong of me to assume I understood what that meant. But I never set out to deceive you; I did what I thought was the best thing I could." It was a bizarrely heartfelt admission of guilt. Ms. Woeburne had not meant it to be, but these regrets brought a persistent, prickle-pear sensation below the vampire's collarbone. "I hated working behind your back."

Sebastian's thoughtful expression narrowed, intensified – and then she blinked helplessly as the Californian Prince stopped, chuckled, bore his teeth. "Dear, dear Childe." It was a very serious note of reality astride breeziness and the unperturbed Patrician stare. "You are never 'behind my back,' I promise you."

What could Serena do – balled hands rumpling, spine erect, pride omega-low – but bow her head?

"Chin up, Ms. Woeburne. Stop moping. I forgave you," the Prince tossed in, smarting her shoulder with a set of knuckles. This simple, unprecedented slap was starkly out-of-character, something that startled. Manufactured camaraderie, of course. But, even knowing the artificiality of his friendships, that gesture felt halfway fond. "Here is how it stands," he told her, as the dear-Childe gasped her arm by reflex, clearly disturbed by being treated kindly, like a fellow or proper mentee. "I was very angry with you at first. But I've since had time to reflect on the steps we took to get here, and the motives behind those few terrible decisions you made. It closed all right. I've had some very important arrangements done, and you? You have my pardon – because I know you did that incredibly stupid thing not for self-advancement, but out of some misguided desire to protect me. I demand loyalty from my corporals. I expect excellence. But I am actually rather touched by the dangers in which you placed yourself when under the illusion my name was in jeopardy. Not at all smart, but parts of the episode are somewhat commendable. Though I am by no means applauding your childish attempts at politics, they were… endearing, in a way. Do you see my meaning?"

'_Endearing?'_ Scrambling for life-and-limb at an Anarch chief's behest was 'endearing?' Serena might've made an uproar had she not been shamed into surrender. Would it have been half so 'endearing,' the woman wondered, if Nines Rodriguez refused all her requests and sent Ms. Woeburne sloshing back to Sebastian with nothing but a bag full of I'm-Sorry appeals? Would a tour of civil service suffice had she hadn't followed through? Would 'endearing' be an appropriate description of her after the Camarilla drew its recompense?

No, she thought: _dead_ would probably be a far cry closer to that what-if.

"Did you learn something about Jyhad, at least?" he wondered, and did so with what seemed to be honest – albeit mild – curiosity. She was still holding that bare flesh where he'd nudged her. Her trapezius had seized up and, for no apparent reason, it hurt.

Serena puffed, a weak, rueful answer – because it was all she could muster surrounded by wealth and defined by failure. "Yes. I'm rubbish at it."

"Plenty of time to cut your teeth, my dear."

And that was all he had to say on the subject, glancing across the room to acknowledge a fastidious clanmate Ms. Woeburne did not recognize.

She resumed frowning at her wineglass.

"Enough for the moment, at any rate; it's a conversation we'll finish later. This is a party. We may as well try to be in the spirit," was Mr. LaCroix's suggestion. He reclined against his chair. "Let's see if we can't brighten the mood between us. I have reasons to celebrate, don't I? My treaties and my plans all lined up. And you – _you_, misguided or not, played no small role in both of them."

"Your Giovanni alliance did carry through without a hitch, sir," the Foreman granted. She listened distractedly to Mira, Fairholm and Primogen Greene gossip fruitlessly. The three women looked like a dinner-theater rendition of Macbeth's weird sisters. Serena did not want to guess at what she and her Sire looked like in their corner, plotting quietly, harsh and clannish eyes. "I trust your representative is performing up to snuff in Santa Monica as we speak. Did you decide on Mr. Chen, after all?" she inquired, imagining that fulsome ancilla firing up a PowerPoint for his baffled Anarch coterie. It was a funny daydream. Her bracelets went _clack_ as Woeburne reached for another drink; she fiddled an unelaborate ring upon her thumb.

The Prince's smile was small. His eyelids lowered, half-moon slices, incomplete white, black, blue. "Not exactly."

"Oh," she responded. A conglomerate as massive as theirs had no shortage of talented speakers - kept ambassadors to come running at its every beck and call - but Serena rather thought Mr. Chen LA's local star. Ah, well. At least _she_ was no longer the ill-fitted Anarch link. Pity on the fool low enough on their food-chain to adopt that unspectacular job. "Ms. Gutierrez, then."

"No, dear girl. Ms. Gutierrez is a fine negotiator, to be sure, but no." The Ventrue's grin – always a sinister, collected thing when Ventrue grin – inched further. He looked like an Aesop Fable fox. "Would you care to venture another guess?"

"I hate guessing. Please just tell me, sir," Serena pouted, submissively showing him her inherited pair of fangs. It was an attempt to look deserving of warmth and esteem; a half-hearted, uneasy attempt, perhaps; but Mr. LaCroix seemed to appreciate the effort, if not the result. Such was true of many things Ms. Woeburne had done.

"Let me tell you a secret about playing this game, Childe. I've said a lot about partners and unions tonight. But this I am saying to you: there is no such thing as legitimate alliance," a Prince proclaimed, staring at his radiant collaborator; the mansion air was frigid and oppressive with the commingled scents of several generations. He watched Giovanni like one might a bubbling family pup whose novelty would soon wear off. "No treaty of convenience - no matter how badly needed, no matter how deeply meant - outweighs the dynamics of instinct. Every single relationship you forge will come with an expiration date. The trick to succeeding in this life is predicting your ally's time limit and preempting it with an adder in their basket. No one can be trusted to understand or care. _You _are the sole proponent of your goals, and that is the way it always is. Losses and gains may be made by those in your circles, and perhaps at your expense, but when we play our enemies against our enemies, the victor is guaranteed."

He laughed – grandly – linked an arm through hers, and clinked their glasses like business cohorts of the worst white-collar kind. "The coalition of You and I."

"So you sent a Giovanni?" Ms. Woeburne asked, taking a sip. Joelle, hands folded virginally over her sternum, opened sixty seconds ahead of schedule with _Tombé du Ciel_.

The Prince leant closer, and whispered a better answer into his corporal's ear. "I sent Grünfeld Bach."

Color sluiced from Serena's face.

"Cheers to you, Ms. Woeburne," Sebastian toasted, then drank.

**III.**

Somewhere during the next half-hour, Serena politely excused herself, made minuteman haste for an empty washroom, and then she was locked in the shower with cellular pressed between shoulder and chin.

The Ventrue was frightfully calm with back to tile, receiver to ear. She did not move, shake, second-guess or breathe. There would have been no point of any of that. Instead, she listed – waited for the dial tone, at least eight tolls, no sign of an answer. It had been her third time calling the Anarch's mobile number.

"Mr. Rodriguez, this is Ms. Woeburne with LaCroix Foundation," Ms. Woeburne with LaCroix Foundation fumbled automatically, an equally impersonal message for that terrible impersonal machine. The Foreman sounded cool and collected. Behind that voice, Serena was dizzy, desperate, groping for control. She was failing. She _knew_ she was failing, imagination swarmed with the measle-mark flick of a targeting laser on sternum, gut, skull. Her throat contracted. One of the Ventrue's hand pressed forward against sliding-glass, posture hunched, stomach hurting. Vague warnings were given with clear, concise anxiety. She felt more like pleading her innocence, and for her life. "An emergency situation has come to my attention. Listen carefully. Do NOT go to Santa Monica tonight. If you are already on your way, please turn around and disregard our arrangement. Call me back IMMEDIATELY."

That said, she clicked off her phone, hollered "_FUCK_" and punched one palm heel into the shower door.

Glass rattled. Cracks blooming around her hand, the woman wrenched back, still cussing, lacerations already wet. "Shit," she spat, nearly wiped a streak of blood onto her dress, then realized why red stains might be unwise. Ms. Woeburne quickly stumbled out of the stall and twisted on its faucet. There was little she could about a splintered door, but at least the DNA could be washed away. Serena watched hers commingle with water, trickle down the pane and run clear.

"Shit," she told herself again, knowing it was pointless, needing the hardness of the word. "Shit, shit, shit."

Foreman S. Woeburne's success record had been a very imperfect thing since Sebastian's summons to the United States; discovering one of her few triumphs culminated into another breakdown was disheartening news. He had seemed so lackadaisical about those Society coordinates she slapped on his desk, a shrug that now screamed sense. The ambush must've been Priority One all along; the accident of a dead Baron and a handful of Anarch lieutenants was delicious complement to their Giovanni alliance. Cutthroat ventriloquism by Los Angeles's new Prince, no doubt; even the puppet who tap-danced into it had to say so. Ms. Woeburne didn't presently have the leisure to coo over shrewd strategy, however. Far from it - she hardly had time to soak in the terror of death threats, actually, bent there in a manor washroom full of linens, pink tile and seashell soaps. The Ventrue couldn't even snap her fingers and enjoy a dastardly chuckle at another false-king's demise. Alas, no: the unfortunate fact was that 'recent events,' as she so often called them, had instead left Serena in a rather terrible lurch.

"Lurch," you know, like the bull's-eye glaring atop her head.

A decent Childe ought to love their Sire. Ms. Woeburne supposed she loved hers, in a way; a way he would've tolerated, at least. To be just so frank, however, she did _not_ love Sebastian LaCroix _quite_ enough to have her brains jackhammered out by a cult of weepy Free-State kamikazes with carving knives.

At the same time, Serena knew she shouldn't dare thwart her master's agendas; if there was anything to fear more than murder-by-Anarch, it was surely a death the Camarilla could give. For a chance at survival, she had to conjure up a lie – cobble together some credibility, an excuse that didn't seem completely insane. How to explain that lie to Mr. LaCroix afterwards (presuming there _was_ an afterwards) didn't even worry her – not yet. One task at a time, she knew; one step to the next. No Kindred could become tangled in a web they'd woven - it was the ultimate embarrassment, Sebastian warned, the poor planner's fate, the most common form of Ventrue death. _Left-foot-right-foot._ That's what good corporals do.

Abandoning Rodriguez, Serena resorted to The Last Round, keys slower than her fingers were. She dialed. Perhaps they would not have left yet, the Foreman soothed herself. Perhaps they were all still there.

_Perhaps_ fell flat when an unfamiliar voice answered – female, young, brute gusto, general contempt. _"Last Round. Nines ain't here. What do you want?"_

"Thank God someone picked up," Ms. Woeburne exhaled, cactus needles down her throat. "Listen: I need to get through to Mr. Rodriguez right away. It's absolutely urgent. You're going to contact him - wherever he is, whatever he's doing - and have him call back at my current number. That would be area code four-two-four – do you have something to write this on? – _424-531-65…_"

_"Who the fuck is this?"_

"My name is Woeburne," she snapped, impatient, forgetting. There had been no point or opportunity for introductions. Nice manners and the names of ancilla had never been so unimportant as they were now. "Serena Woeburne. With the LaCroix Foundation. Rodriguez knows who I am; get a hold of him, tell him he needs to-"

But whatever he _needed-to_ got snapped short a squint and a grunt. _"__Who__?"_

Her molars ground. Serena started tonight in a dreadful mood - one that briefly got better before it plunged worse - and only now she was beginning to feel brassed-off in earnest. Each trifle on this idiot's call-screen was another second closer to catastrophe; each delay twisted the burner, and her anger grew. "I said _Woeburne_. Woeburne. As in chronic depression and a stovetop; do you understand? That's W-O-E-B-" A Brujah scoff kicked 'U' aside.

_"You must think you're fucking with me or something,"_ the woman on the other end dismissed. With no face to attach to this coarse character, Prince LaCroix's Childe was already stifling compulsions to slap her._ "LaCroix Foundation? Give me a fucking break. Look, lady: I don't give a shit what your name is or how you spell it. You got the wrong number. You're barking up the wrong goddamn tree. Now stop wasting my-"_

"This is London, for Christ's sake," the Foreman snarled, dismayed to acknowledge that wildly macho, inaccurate nickname. Her clipped fingernails felt like talons; her bones, not broken, had a punishing grip. "Patch me through right now. This is vital; neither he nor I can afford to wait while you piss around my office. Do it!"

There was a silence. A Den Mother recognized her on the far side of the line.

_"_The _London?_" Somehow Serena doubted the Anarch's surprise was a positive kind. _"Shit. Nines said you were a British bitch, but…"_

The Ventrue's patience unraveled like a button-rip in her stockings. Temper surged and foamed over stainless steel self-control. She screamed: "GET HIM ON THE FUCKING PHONE THIS INSTANT!"

Car breaks howled through the receiver. Proverbial car breaks. Unfortunately. _"Whoa, whoa; look, Cam: I don't know who the fuck you think you're talking to, but you better calm your shit down. What do you want me to do? I said Nines isn't here. If he's not picking up, either he doesn't want to talk - which wouldn't surprise me - or the man's busy. Tell me what you've got, and I'll make sure he gets it, all right?"_ she growled, sounding harassed, then hesitant, then suspicious. _"Yeah - and shouldn't you know all about this, anyway? Your people are the ones who wanted this 'ceasefire' meeting."_

"When did he leave?" Serena posed her question clearly and carefully.

_"A while ago. I guess, like… twenty minutes or-"_

_Beep_.

In one motion, Ms. Woeburne clicked off her telephone, stepped outside the guest bathroom, and looked about with dark, calculating eyes. She was alone in this dim hallway, heels on a long white rug. The Ventrue softly shut the door behind her and descended two carpeted flights of stairs. She did not stop to speak anyone. Even when Therese, who'd slunk into the back foyer for a cigarette, shot Prince LaCroix's Childe a mandatory nod, Serena marched on; she couldn't humor Santa Monica's warder at the city's expense, could not to bother with social climbers or vindictive converts. Her pace was icy and executive as the Kindred slid through a staff door and outside into the Giovanni Mansion's empty rear yard.

Their grass was fresh and perfect. These places always were.

Night seeped through suburban California in coarse black brushstrokes. It saturated the moneyed hills over downtown, a heaviness that made every mellow light out here look misty, yellow, radiant on spotless marble. The property was romantic in that sanguine way. Serena, however, had become inured to blood-wealth and to its towering brand of beauty; the Foreman scanned her surroundings, filled dead lungs with moist air, and assessed. She was quite thoroughly alone. This lot was gravel path, lime trees and landscaping beneath a harvest moon. It hadn't been intended as a party garden - clean, uninhabited and massive - openness that made Ms. Woeburne feel queasy for the way her limbs glowed around a dress you could not see through darkness. There were some signs of business going on behind the grand household, though. Catering trucks and carrier automobiles of various origins were parked along this modest cul-de-sac, a strict row, leaving room in case the valet overbooked. Italian busts twined in white stone. Chlorine gleaned appealingly in an unused, silent swimming fountain. Wind rippled the prongs of palm trees and dew dabbled the stockingless toes of a Ventrue protégé as she strode coolly onto those first blades of impeccable grass.

They were rather alarmingly cold, Ms. Woeburne thought. Or perhaps that midsummer _cold_ was not the grass at all - not a rainchill in this higher air - but her blood starting to thicken, run, ready itself. She couldn't say for certain. But whatever-it-was was certainly cold. Rather alarmingly cold, indeed.

No one here. The clicks of her shoes were frightening as they transitioned from crumble-stone to earth and back. Cement lights, too, intimidated; they tossed up wicked silhouettes of the woman's frame as she walked, drawing her in cinematic, mirror-maze tilts. Serena followed that road for a short time feeling like something that could be hunted. She made herself ignore it, made herself plan, until she could make up her mind.

Best to leave off right away, then. Ms. Woeburne decided on one stout, four-tire freeze-truck with deep treads and a meat-locker; it had ferried in drinks all evening, and she was sure, with some imagination, it could carry her right back out. The chassis sides were very thick. You could probably shoot it a few times and keep the groceries fresh.

It would do. Yes, it would do nicely.

There was only one ghoul standing at the end of that lane - uzi at his belt, book in his hand, suit trying hard to be formal. She Dominated him face-first into the stagnating Jacuzzi.

Finding keys waiting in the ignition – courteous fluke! – Serena unlocked her borrowed van's loading doors, and then returned to the drowned body, wondering if she'd enough strength to pull him in. It wasn't likely and wasn't worth the struggle. Instead, she fished him over with a bug-scooper (not _quite_ its intended use), pulled out the sadly wet gun for herself, and shoved him under - right down to the bottom of that dark, square pool.

It was good fortune alone that made her check his pockets first.

There was a color-coded swipe-card in the boy's checkered vest. It matched, just by coincidence, the sign on the guardroom standing fifty yards away.

And do you know what was inside?

Spare cameras, security monitors, two Coca-Cola cans, a _Maxim Magazine_, and about six industrial-size crates of military ordnance.

The Foreman grabbed four riot shotguns, two of the munitions tubs, a flashlight, some number of loose bullet boxes, and maybe two or three extraordinarily illegal automatic rifles. She was in a rush; she wasn't exactly sure.

Serena dumped them all into the back of the truck, and she clambered in.

It was uncomfortably warm. Her arms had to reach quite a ways for the wheel in this low, awkward cockpit; there was no adjustment slider or seatbelt extender. There was a vague smell of the type of cigar she didn't like, a smudge on one rearview. Dashboard meters made bare skin alien blue. The Childe placed both feet on the pedals and exhaled.

Could she circumvent disaster? Honestly, Ms. Woeburne didn't know. But just in case the answer was 'not a chance,' she would damn well arrive prepared.

Preparing, as you know, is the Ventrue thing to do.

**IV.**

After showing up at this run-down goddamn puppet-show – a five-man crew behind him – to spring another dirty-rotten bastard's dirty-rotten trap, there were still a few things Nines Rodriguez expected of the Big Business Meeting at Santa Monica Pier:

1. LaCroix hadn't entertained a single conscionable intention once in his fucked-up, bloodsucking life. (True.)

2. The Society of Leopold in no way realized who they were fighting or just who they were fighting _for_. (True.)

3. Serena Woeburne wouldn't come speeding up the boardwalk in a delivery truck and lay the whole fucking thing flat roundabout twenty feet from where he was crouched behind a worthless goddamn popcorn stand.

False.

"JESUS CHRIST," she screamed where she fell on the pavement, vehicle hurtling past her, collapsing in a big fucking action-hero boom of sparks.

Nines wasn't going to be too hard on himself. Two-out-of-three is a pretty good guess.

It was what you'd call "aggressive tactics," the decision made between those last few yards of asphalt, chainlink and safety rail - aggressive in nature, in speed, and in how hard Ms. Woeburne had stepped on the pedal, trying not to imagine her insides painting the windshield glass. This was somewhat difficult, as bad forecasts and negative thinking were two personal strongpoints. She'd done nothing _but_ thinking since the Ventrue stepped outside her Sire's party. Plotting and planning and scheming and worrying - they were the critical components to a good last-minute rescue - whether the one you were rescuing was a hapless victim, a rival who deserved it, or really, beneath all the loyal-stuffing and clever-child excuses, yourself.

'_Try this out for bipartisan heroics, you sons-of-bitches,' _Serena had dared, drew some slapdash geometrics between where her van was and where she wanted it to be, then slammed brakes-to-floorboard and upturned the automobile in a roaring runway of disaster.

Alloy-against-asphalt made a horrible squall, and the sheer _heat_ of said asphalt was overwhelming when Ms. Woeburne hit concrete. It hurt. But the Foreman had expected hurt - she'd readied for a blow as much as one could, tightened core and loosened joints, hoped the lock-pieces of her neck would fare well. It was an awfully risky thing to do, oh yes, but much easier to protect your body against the unkindness of blacktop than Sheriff's swords. Subsisting in the short-term would mean nothing if you wouldn't live past tomorrow. This young officer was terribly severe; had no fantasies of torching herself alive for anyone (Camarilla, Anarch, or otherwise). She did, however, intend on out-surviving the likes of Mira Giovanni, Nines Rodriguez, Joelle Lefevre.

So she had punched the gas, forked open the passenger door, strengthened her nerves, and leapt out of the truck five seconds before impact.

And it was an _impressive_ impact, you'd have to admit.

Woeburne retracted elbows to gut, pressed both legs together; hugged limbs tightly to torso; tucked her shoulders protectively around the cradle of head and throat. None of that registered as Serena rolled rapidly head-over-heels to a stop. This meant it didn't scare her as much as pulling a testosterone stunt straight out of some comic book should. Leopold fired at the intrustion immediately; elephant-caliber bullets stippled engine pipes, rattled on tin. Yet, oddly enough, and for all that: the Ventrue's parting concern before jumping away from her crash-course car was _the road rash will ruin my gown_.

The truck whirled to a standstill, nose bleeding steam, pressure shattering its glass. Regrettably, it did not eliminate any hunters in a humorous swathe of broken bones. It did, however – as per Ms. Woeburne's hasty mathematics – swing a wide arc, tripping over two potholes, to fall roundabout where they needed cover most. The final collision of fenders to tarmac was surprisingly loud. Credit where it's due: Bach's men didn't cower very long, and so her van was riddled with lead within seconds, a metal corpse, no longer salvageable or street-worthy. But then, Serena didn't need it to be. Spouting fluid as it was, motor totaled, her robust rescue-mobile had second life: it blocked a gap of open battlefield between the sad little vendor square where LA's Anarchs holed themselves up and a nearby three-story arcade. She'd seen the biggest problem blocks away. Corrosive rounds and uncovered territory kept revolutionaries from breaking free; empty space trapped them at a low disadvantage, tails tucked, unable to return fire save for short, ineffective bursts.

Until Ms. Woeburne patched it up with a freezer-truck wreck, that is.

When the kinetics finally tumbled themselves out, leaving her stinging there on old blacktop, what else would a sane Ventrue have done? She'd jerked up her head – absinthe eyes spiraling riotously – and announced that very sincere _Jesus Christ_.

(The irony of being locked in a firefight with psychotic paladins of God was not amiss to her. Neither were the couple extra words, possibly "mother" and/or "fucking," she'd thrown in.)

Serena's arms were sprinkled in grime flecks and friction burn; Kindred regeneration had already begun to soothe the former. It did nothing, however, for scrapes torn around the sable dress. Her mane, a coffee-brown at its nape with something that could not have been sweat, went feral. Both shins bled just beneath the velvet. She was fairly sure everything should've been hurting too badly to move by now – a nervous system's way of shrieking _what in the HELL did you DO_ – but adrenaline satiated it with a welcome heap of nothing. So Woeburne was up on the concrete and running; pebbles and broken aluminum flew beneath her, _ouch_ delayed until a more convenient time. The Ventrue did not slow or stop. By the time she reached the barricade of her dearly departed truck, ammunition was sailing overhead, around, wherever Leopold could reach. Shots thumped loudly into the chassis, a violent rain. Tubes burst. It was a terribly disorienting thing.

Serena pressed her spine on the belly of the vehicle, between the axles, knees gummy, feeling a vestigial need to pant. Tires spun on either side. Ms. Woeburne's various scrapes were just beginning to sting as Anarchs darted out from behind their slumping cordon – slinking along a train of automobiles like big, skittish hunting cats – and towards her.

"This wasn't us!" she blurted before Rodriguez could let loose any premature shells, uppercuts, or a first in the crude oil of her blue-black heart.

The Brujah was looking slightly worse-for-wear. Gashes - she could not tell what from - ripped frightening, fleshy claw-marks through the leather of his thick jacket, red rising through bullet-proof that hadn't held. She was not sure if it was a fortunate or discouraging thing he had come prepared for something like this. Skids and surface abrasions littered him from the height of his shoulders to the soles of his boots, anyway; a vertical cut leaked through the dark hair at his temples and halfway down Nines's right cheek. It looked as though he'd smacked his head. One knee had been torn out of the Baron's jeans, bleeding into ragged denim; dirt smudged Rodriguez gray complexion. It was difficult to gauge an intent. They were certainly under-equipped to counter the Society's particular brand of vampire-killers - certainly had not been expecting Bach - but that considered, "surprised" was not the word she would have used to describe him.

Cynicism and unparticular rage commingled in the Anarch's glower. Machinegun blue roiled insurrection in bruised eye sockets; the left had swollen murky purple. Serena might've felt more sympathy had he not been growling at her like a goddamn junkyard dog.

He was moving towards her rather quickly, now that she noticed - rather unacceptably quickly - much _too_ quickly, actually, and before she knew it or meant to, Ms. Woeburne was backpedaling, expression wide, wishing very suddenly but very strongly she had kept that uzi by her side.

"No, no, no-let-me-explain-!" But she was unable to do so with his hand wrapped around her throat.

In a bodily whorl of movement, Serena was hoisted up - up by the hinge of her neck like a timber snake - and she was thrown roughly against the vehicle's underside, and then it _all_ hurt. Lightning webbed through the coils of her brain. Protrusions gouged her lower back. The breath woofed out of her lungs, something she couldn't retain; his palm heel ground into her juggling larynx; her fingers retaliated for leeway. They dug deep but were unable to pry him off. Rattlers, cottonmouths, crawling things with venom glands - thumb and forefingers squeezed the tender lymph nodes under Ms. Woeburne's jaw. And it was reflex, instinctive reaction, but the Ventrue's fangs flared through their gums as though her bite, too, would kill a man. Brave violence. Yet they could not compare to the menace or size of Brujah teeth, and serpents ended wolves only when trod on, when creeping through their toes unseen.

Serena did not want the fight. She tried to rip her head away, but could not, watching muzzle-flash chase moonlight down murderous enamel. There was a fifty-millimeter smoking in the clutch of his opposite hand.

_"You're making a mistake." _ It was how she spent the air she had left, and something she'd warned him other times before.

Woeburne, excuses and air depleted, waited for the bellowed accusations, for the sickly vertebrae _pop._ Rodriguez said nothing. He didn't flinch, but stood, crushing the driver against her vehicle bed, expecting an explanation. Serena was not sure how he thought to get one; Kindred did not, naturally, need to respirate, but vocal chords did. The officer wedged a bent leg between her abdomen and her attacker, searching blindly for leverage to pare free. No chance - Nines's handhold was bearlike. Buckshot fell in hail. The Brujah's shoulders heaved up and down as he very obviously pondered hurling her into crossfire.

She couldn't get free, but she did get a gasp; blood blossoms welled through the raw lines her nails cut into knuckles, fingers, wrist.

"I said-" The squeal wretched into a gurgle. Claws punctured the fleshy hinge of his hand. "I SAID THIS ISN'T US!"

The rumble might have been explosives and it might've been Nines. "SHUT UP," he thundered, whipping Serena's skull back, right into a ridge. Shooting stars twinkled across her field of vision. She cursed _fuck_, _son-of_; they were insults unarmed. "The only reason you don't have a pistol rammed down your motherfucking windpipe is because I can't spare the ammunition. I figured you people'd try some shit like this, but _hunters_?" The word boomed with lost respect. "I expect a meeting, I give you my attention, and you sick _hunters_ on me? Fuck the Masquerade; you got Anarchs to kill. You got a fucking deadline to make. Well, you better say your mea culpas, bitch, because you are about to get-"

"_I_ DIDN'T KNOW," she snarled, though her voice came out an ugly, swollen wail. "I DIDN'T DO THIS. I DIDN'T SEND THEM. WE DIDN'T KNOW." It was not immediately clear to Nines whether LaCroix's Childe was referring to herself and Sire collectively, or had simply reverted to the _royal 'we_._'_ And honestly, it probably wouldn'tve mattered much to his overall decision of whether or not Ms. Woeburne needed her gray matter bashed out all over the ass-end of this car.

"WHO CALLED THIS?" he roared, and she stuttered another mouthful of nonsensical hates at being hefted up, slammed back.

"We didn't-"

"I WILL KILL YOU RIGHT HERE. WHO CALLED IT."

Panic blistered up Woeburne's body. She pawed against his hand, couldn't get her fingers under it. Her eyes went unfocused and wide. "NOT US."

"BULLSHIT," he fumed. There were scratches she put all over his arm. "You arranged this. I bet it was YOU the whole fucking time. Bet this shit has got nothing to do with him at all; you've wanted to take a swing at me, blueblood, and you took it. And you're going to fucking get it. I should take the tongue right out of your mouth. I should rip your fucking head off-"

"GET OFF ME," she yelled, ramming her skinned kneecap futilely into the Anarch's liver. He felt the impact but was too angry to feel the pain. They fought gawkily for a minute - limbs, scrambling, a faceful of elbow. "Stop this; stop; stop it," the Ventrue clamored, hoarse, groping for a minute to argue though her expression was wild. Thrashing and kicks dropped in an effort to calm them both. Serena's heels were propped against her truck to gain the inch to speak. Anarchs were running amuck behind them; two, three, or was that the same one? She could not see them and she could not care. "There's no time. You're going to get us both killed. We have to be- you have to get- _stop it_!" Ms. Woeburne scolded - scolded, now - because the foolishness was worse than the fear and the pain. "I said STOP IT!"

Her command broke into a wail when something struck the left front wheel, and it erupted barely feet away. He reacted. Woeburne sprawled across the ground.

"You son-of-a-bitch," she was coughing, grabbing at her clavicle, spitting and rasping, a heap of minor snake. "You stark-raving son-of-a-bitch. You could have broken my-"

"Why are you here?" the Brujah demanded, forearm shredded, Eagle held beside him. Serena unhappily massaged her collarbone. The Toreador she'd soon forget was Kent-Alan skittered past them and towards the safety of red brick. Fear shivered in that cocksure expression; for once, the beach-burnt boy did not toss out any dismal attempts at charm. Pity that Ms. Woeburne was not exactly in a position to appreciate it. She saw him dart from their truck, lunge three steps for the arcade, then dive behind its decorative half-wall - shelter was a slab of cement, city construction recession left incomplete. That yellow mane disappeared into the building and beneath the dead floor lights.

"I'm here to warn you," she hissed, a second-guess, furious to have been posed such a stupid question with her blood vessels burst. The Ventrue crawled gingerly back towards the bulwark of automobile - toward him, horrible direction, because there was nowhere else to go. "_Obviously_. Tried to warn you. For God's sake, why would you ask me; you know _why _I'm here. I thought I could... I thought I could help."

Nines looked apt to glare, probably holler, but there was a lag in the fire then - an opportunity more important than blueblood bickering. He climbed high enough to see over the truck and sent a round of bullets twanging down the Pier.

"What the fuck could you do," Rodriguez spat, not bothering to look, dropping back down to reload the pistol. "That would be any help to me?"

Ms. Woeburne stood as much as she considered wise. She was not boastful. The Foreman's offer was terribly serious, wholly unsmiling, fretfully sure. There were bruises and lipstick and tarnished promises bleeding over her deceptively normal face.

"I am a very good shot," she said.

It was not something to gain his esteem or a pathway to trust. Skills and talents, the dressing of strong people, do not make for strong friends. But in that moment - in the spray of Pacific, the shadow of Los Angeles, the mean years where he half-expected to die - had there been enough ammo, Nines would have handed her his other gun.

Pellets shattered a rearview mirror. The Ventrue's sarcasm slid in a backhand, esophagus tingling unpleasantly; her face was murderously alive and mottled with soot. Bloody bumps sprouted on bare patches where her dress had torn. She'd begun to gasp unconsciously. Her veins all stood out on her damaged, recovering neck. "But if you have it under control," Serena condescended. "If you want me to LEAVE YOU TO IT, I will. I'll just _get in my car_. I'll wish you people all the best, really I will; but if that's that, that's that. FAR be it from me to presume. Far be it from me to-"

Something that sounded and smelled suspiciously like a grenade flashed down the Pier; it sent half a Honda husk over the railing and into a choppy wave.

The silence that always follows explosions left Nines staring white-eyed and Woeburne with both hands plastered over her mouth. They said nothing for a moment. They stood and waited for more blasts. None were forthcoming, but the anticipation brought new seriousness to their frontline - a reduction in wasted pot-shots, the loss of petty fights, and sudden momentum for retreat. Another pair of Brujah (these she didn't recognize) dashed past them and into the unlit complex. One was a middle-aged man with a fisherman's beard and jet tattoos everywhere not padded in Special-Ops green. The other was a lean woman carting a sawed-off, ebony knot curled beneath a Harley helmet, layered in several hide coats. Rodriguez shoved her between the shoulder-blades when she began to stall, ordering haste and calling her "Christie."

Serena took the initiative. "I'm not sure how this happened-" (A half-truth; her timeline was reasonably fleshed-out by now, but lacked the specifics of cause-and-effect.) "But we _clearly_ can't stay out here. We need to keep this contained; we need to get your people-"

Nines snorted. He ducked down and allowed a Kalashnikov burst to pass, then gave his answer in two ear-splitting shots. One missed and broke a taillight on some ratty pickup they were using for a barricade; the other splattered cerebrum, a terrible bloodflower pink, across its passenger window. "Shove it up your ass, Camarilla. '_We_' nothing. This is exactly what _your_ people want. This is going to make your Prince's night," the Anarch shouted, from outrage and over gunfire. Ms. Woeburne figured arguing politics with him was useless in their present state. "And he sent YOU, of all people, to pull our boots out of the fire? Bullshit," again.

"Call it what you like, Brujah, but you see me standing here. I am on your side of this field. I moved for you as soon as I got wind of the hit! They must have intercepted our diplomats," the woman suggested, lies between chattering fangs. Nines did not respond. He must've been somewhat willing to consider her account, however, seeing as how Serena wasn't currently gushing guts across the summer Pier. Woeburne pressed on. Her life was the first motivator for rushing into Santa Monica tonight, but she could not expose Sebastian. "Your records and your den will verify my story. I've been trying to get in touch with you for the past half-hour. They must have tapped my landlines. They must've hacked my telephone. I don't know. I'm not sure. I only-"

"You expect me to believe that a handful of crackpots were capable of-"

"I don't expect anything from you, Rodriguez," she snapped. A Ventrue loyalist extending aid to revolutionaries – particularly _her_, and particularly _these_ revolutionaries – was an equally difficult reality for both Baron and Foreman. It was spiky and unpleasant and went down with a chloride burn. Nevertheless…

"I'm here," Serena heard herself swear. "Do you want my help?"

"Skelter's dead," Nines informed her. It was a gruff, dispassionate mumble - no proper answer, no real decline. Ms. Woeburne rubbed her knuckles over her eyes, name meaning nothing, watching him reload a magnum. Everything was blurred with the film of killing heat. She did not think he wanted Camarilla apologies.

Serena, feeling very naked without a gun of her own, crept to the freezer trunk while Rodriguez emptied another six bullets. One problem solved inside - countless more created. Now or never, she supposed, snapping a keyring from the bra strap she'd hooked it on. A steady tug released the contents, none of which had exploded in her wreck. AR-15s spilt out like toppled cards. The Ventrue, lacking her trusty pistol, found that dead Giovanni's sturdy SMG again. It was loaded, safety locked. She'd just prepped the thing when there was another large sound - a second roar - behind her.

This time it wasn't a detonation, but a cheer.

"Sweet Jesus - PEOPLE, ARTILLERY OUT FRONT," Playboy screamed down from the arcade's second-story window. It echoed powerfully - more powerfully, Ms. Woeburne thought, than one voice should - a bad-karma excitement that swept the lightless building. His cohorts scrambled back to the doors into which they'd just bolted. Anarchs were accustomed to expecting trouble, and these certainly had been; imagine their surprise to anticipate tankfire and find a cache of mint weapons slumping onto the ground.

Wolf-eyes from the darkness, all peering out, like they had just seen a chicken coop collapse.

"Way to go, baby-doll!" Kent-Alan praised, a laugh that was somehow maniacal, and _shocking_ how fast guilt blooms into belly aches.

'_Oh God. _Now_ what the hell have I done?' _Forget her own wellbeing for an instant (for you might manage it, even if Ms. Woeburne cannot); had she really armed a resistance squadron? Asking Anarchs if they'd mind returning a truckload of ordnance after-the-fact did not seem prudent; Ms. Woeburne didn't imagine putting it 'nicely' would work wonders, either. Her abdomen hardened whatever stomach was left to churn. It had hardly enough time to lament a questionable judgment, however. Serena's blood was still living and surged to her mind. She had to keep these factors valid.

A truth the Brujah have always been better at, have always felt, even if they've never won: sometimes you have to cease your spiderweb thinking and let your body know how to fight.

It was a ragtag assembly: the overinked redhead broke his lines first, slinging an M16 for himself, dragging two ammunition crates to safety. Christie was quickly in-tow. Encouraged by the goal, one final Anarch scurried out from behind - from beneath that abandoned stack of sports cars at which they left him - a young man, in sight and smell, still a pointman in physique. He carried a spent Remington, a knit cap over short auburn, and a faint Puerto Rican accent; the last of these were kept, but the first was immediately traded for a bolt-action. They called him "Deacon." Stupid nickname, hideously coincidental. He shot back twice before reaching cover and helping pull the boxes in.

Three footsoldier clichés now hauled weapons towards their brick basecamp; it was a silly, brute-force, frightening fireman's carry covered by one candy-talking Toreador in his makeshift sharpshooter's nest. Such a view would normally be quite unnerving to a lone Foreman. In fact, it was: terribly unnerving; allies she didn't want; recompense she didn't need. Ms. Woeburne paled, guilty all over again, feeling like a gun-runner.

Nines had sheathed his depleted handgun and chose an AK-47. He hefted it, squinted, then turned back to Serena with a strange look. It looked just as angry, just as implacable. But it was - and she is still not sure how the old Baron did this - grateful, something halfway human, too.

"I told you," she defended automatically. There was no need to quibble further or to explain that off-look. Evidence and argument helped calm the bubbles in her tummy. "I told you why I came. I told you my aid is sincere."

The Baron's disinterest would have to do for a truce. He looked for a good hold on his new firearm, guessed how much it would slow him down, planned out the sprint to better shelter. Ms. Woeburne edged to the opposite side of their vehicle barricade to peek out. She felt like catching her breath.

"Going to make our break in a minute, here," Rodriguez decided, propped against the car, barely loud enough for the other end of 'our' to hear it. "I'll go ahead. You start two seconds behind and stick to my left. Time comes, you're going to take one big step - a whole step - then pivot on your left foot and you shoot straight were you're pointing. There's a jeep right down the lane, got three in it. See it?" He didn't point and didn't wait for a yes. Serena saw it anyway. "Those are the three that's going to hit me if they try. It's a pretty long shot. I'm drawing the attention so I'm going to need that suppressing fire; you better hit it. Two seconds. Understand? Can you hit it?"

"Yes. Yes! I _told_ you," the Ventrue pledged one final go, a threat in its certainty, a signal of annoyance and of the other deadly skill she had.

This time, you had to believe her. There were only a few moments. They stood there with their backs against the van she'd destroyed.

"Nice dress, Woeburne," the Brujah said.

_Figured_.

"Bite me," she hissed, counted to two, then - one big step - unlocked her uzi, and blew the concrete wet and red.

**V.**

Thirty minutes after that big step – hundreds of bullets after _one, two-!_ – and the fight finally looked like it had reached its peak.

There had been considerable sacrifices tonight, Serena reflected, kneeling where she was between a Toreador, a munitions crate and a soda machine. Her own should be obvious by this hour and the uncivilized stench of them all. A Foreman had sacrificed her morals (what little remained of them, anyway); a Baron had sacrificed his safety (even less remained of that); a Prince sacrificed the long-sticking power of public execution for a less dangerous backdoor death. It was a hefty line of compromises, and for Ms. Woeburne, crouched in her sandals and gown, there was something precariously funny about it all.

One thing that had not been completely sacrificed to Jyhad tonight was a revolution's priority to bolster themselves. The besieged Anarch Party had marginally preserved its ego and reputation on one score and one score only: body-count. With real, brick-and-mortar walls to shield them, the tiny army thinned within moments what had originally been a full Society squadron. Human blood flushed gutters, an uncomfortably biblical metaphor. Ammunition that once clustered like bees - and smarted significantly worse - dispersed to infrequent, staccato flurries. Molotov cocktails shriveled up on sidewalk; Bach's men had apparently sopped their gas reserves dry. Divine invocations lost their victory spirit. Grünfeld himself was nowhere to be seen. By this point, Playboy could spot only four more hunters in any condition to fight back; russet coats - meant to protect or, perhaps, to brand - soaked up cruor, grunge and sweat until their reactions became sluggish, inept.

One thing kine who'd fight Kindred could not afford to be: inept.

There had been no police involvement – not yet – perhaps another fingerprint of Sebastian LaCroix. The LAPD was, of course, obligated to shut-down riots or mob activity; fires sparked by irresponsible partiers stocked with homemade bottle-rockets were another beast. Add that resentment to the fact Santa Monica Pier was acceptably removed from residential districts - natural sand and surf kept flames in check, sounds dull, gunpowder unbreathed - and you might have on your hands a powerful disincentive to get hurt. Even had they heard the rifles, there was no denying this: beat patrols, no matter how heroic or well-trained, did not charge headlong into gang wars of this size. Not here. Supernatural involvement might have gone unnoticed amidst the violence in Los Angeles, but this - the selection of battles and, sometimes, the cheek you'd turn upon them - was an understood facet of life. That was true both for the king-games of monsters and the local police.

And, it had to be said: they would only get in the way.

_'Hail Mary,' _Serena chuffed to herself, took aim, and express-shipped one bullet through a woman's lightly-armored ribcage. There was an implosion of tissues. Mary's head somersaulted backwards to collide with a fender and break.

"SPLAT. Look at that; clean as a whistle," Kent-Alan graded - commentator, window partner, self-appointed moral support. "Nice fucking shot, Cam!"

They had relocated to a vantage point on the first floor, as per Rodriguez's instructions; their top-story, a cheap diner patio, was far too uncovered for practical use. These limits didn't deter them much, however, and progress cantered along at an admirable pace. Playboy picked off insurgents whenever he could with dead-eye accuracy. The man whose name she didn't know darted about, wielded a shotgun. Ms. Woeburne and Deacon each manned a broken window. Christie, meanwhile, alternated between her magnum and lobbing incendiaries. There weren't many, but - by the grace of luck (or, what the hell: God) - Serena had grabbed a carton of F-1s in her firepower scramble, and they were about to save everyone's hide. Nines said so, at any rate. He was hunkered down just outside the stronghold, ducked against that ungainly cement slab, a machine gun interval to keep their enemy contained.

"Contained" - it was the diplomatic term for killings, the automatic word she'd used.

Do you know: Ms. Woeburne had never been in a large-scale firefight. Over the domestic course of her life, LaCroix's Childe stumbled into a few one-on-one situations where shots had been fired – a byproduct of being descended from Princes – and she was even once jumped by a sad crew of Sabbat muggers back in London. But, until now, the Foreman hadn't an opportunity to grind-in like a true-blue musketeer and put her boardroom-warrior lingo to the test. There really wasn't all that much to it. Yes: disorienting warmth, the aroma of gunfire and that distinct detonation buzz were an overpowering combination. But after the brief introduction to warfare passed, she discovered each sense lost its edge, and everything became rather swiftly underwhelming. Perhaps this was another Ventrue trait, but Serena's focus profited from the shock; her sight zoomed straight through bedlam with microscope accuracy; her analysis trumped confusion.

It left the operative smacking on tangy disenchantment. The Ventrue half-anticipated her martyred ashes to be whisked off this pier and into rolling Pacific, after all - there'd be either a big good-corporal funeral, or a really short one (about as long as it would take to throw her file into the garbage and erase her nametags). The reality of combat was almost disappointing.

As if in response to her snideness, one slug sang through jagged window glass and took a neat little nosedive into someone's forehead. It was the tattooed Brujah, the carrot-top. The force propelled him across this hideous checkered floor and into a foosball table, where vampiric flesh almost immediately began falling to dust. Crimson slicked tile.

"SHIT," cried the female. She glanced to-and-fro from their dead to their leader, dilation in her eyes. "Nines, man down!"

"CHRISTIE, STAY PUT," the Baron hollered without looking. Rodriguez's hands were full of rifle and couldn't stop reloading to let him confirm her report. "DEACON, COVER HIM!"

"Don't cover him, Deacon," Serena ricocheted back. It was their own dugout aside. She didn't bother harassing his superior. "No use; he's already cinders."

Nines cussed brutally, but couldn't afford the distraction of caring. No one challenged it – not even an ashen-faced Playboy, who swallowed hard enough for her to hear it, then shakily readjusted his scope. Such was the curt, unmourned end of Two-Tap Doughie. Such was the way two lieutenants had died in one blurry haze of night.

"Keep your head down, Deacon," Christie agreed, concern for her fledgling written on a bold brow. She was rather nice-looking for a Brujah, Ms. Woeburne decided (without that obtuse motorcycle helmet scrunching her face into a lemon, at any rate) – tall, long limbs and Grecian lines, a starling-colored ponytail. Looked like a girl Serena had known. Not a friend, not really; just a girl - who hadn't spoken much; who had shared her room that first year away at boarding school; who she'd found at five o'clock in the communal washroom one morning with a bottle of Ambien inside her and no note at all. Ms. Woeburne chose not to remember the girl's name. Yet she could still remember, with disconcerting lucidity, the set of her eyes - white glaze, mammal death, a suspended look of horror long after the mind inside had gone.

It was not the same name, not the same person, not quite the same color of skin. But there was a catch, an unreal moment, where Serena saw that pretty Anarch's face and swore the eyes in it transformed - the cold-sturgeon horror of tasting an end, experiencing disaster.

She looked up in time to see the fire blast off one edge of Rodriguez's cover.

But it was _not_ fire - it was something hard, something with momentum, even as it burned. Fire alone did not scatter chunks from concrete; fire alone did not make crashing noises; the flame drafts whorled upwards and dispersed. Hot air flushed through the forefront of their floor. Dust paled Christie's boots, only fifteen feet away; plastered Nines, who it'd directly behind, turning his heavy outer jacket white; covered their two heads of dark hair. Deacon startled five steps from where Woeburne crouched. Debris speckled everywhere, across the blacktop and into the window frames, making Rodriguez duck fearfully and try to protect his head. It was a rush of unfriendly light. The arcade trembled, though that boom had not been terribly big; yet it felt, somehow, like a precision bomb. The boardwalk seemed to rock on tree-trunk legs; shards of wood plank were ingested by waves. There was no gradual build. It hurled itself at the Brujah's back like a Beaufort Force Twelve pancaking hurricane cordons. Cement flew. Red particles sailed in every direction. They'd only had one. One was enough.

When something is killing you, Kindred or kine, it becomes difficult to question _what_ that thing is; you are panicked by the fact _that_ it is. Serena did not particularly care what Bach's men had lobbed at them in the confusion of that minute. She would find out later - much later; years, in fact, for it was not the last to be hurled in her direction - that they'd packed a landmine full of shrapnel, nails, glass. They'd poured it all into a liquid cocktail of anything that would sear and burn. It must have burned heinously. To anyone living, but especially bodies like theirs, that chemical flush must've felt like someone lit a match inside the hollow of your ribs.

Rodriguez let fly an ugly sound like a lion hit by a Bantam.

Hurting and pissed, mercury blistered red in his eyes, the Baron barked blood onto the asphalt scalded beneath him. Everyone fired at once. Nines chambered his rifle and discharged a full clip before feeling pain. The first wave missed, disbanding recklessly. The second ruptured a flatbed's fuel tank, glugging propane onto asphalt. The third – wasn't it always the magic third? – minced one Leopold assassin's flailing arm, pounced forward, and hit, seemingly uselessly, a package of flares.

It wasn't the light that got them. It was the sparks that sneezed out of it - out of a frying pan, and right onto that waiting glisten of gasoline.

The far end of Santa Monica Pier rose into a firestorm.

And you should certainly guess if you couldn't know: Leopold didn't shoot at them again.

A series of cries went up: spooked Anarchs, howling ones, something that might've been an expiring hunter and might've been automobile metal. It was a contained - yes, a contained attack, flame limited to the petroleum puddles it ate. The conflagration withered quickly but spectacularly from a scarlet blaze to smoldering rubble. Bitter smoke spread in a fog. The five Kindred remaining Kindred were stunned; not one of them – not even talkative, sociable Playboy – loosened enough to properly cheer. They stood slack in position, staring down the car-strewn walkway and into a dying landmark. Rodriguez had taken cover behind his barricade again and did not move. Ms. Woeburne's rescue van was gone completely. They had nothing to say, neither one of them, especially not to each other.

Serena did not see he had been killed but for that sudden, fearsome black that surged through the Baron's teeth.

The first strangled choke came from Christie. In an ungainly mess of appendages, she shoved Kent and Serena out of her way, sliding on biking kneepads to their injured spokesman's side. Then her brain stalled; momentum hiccuped; urgency tripped over the stumbling block of uncertainty, ten splayed fingers hovering with no inkling as to what they ought to be doing. The woman's fists extended and retracted several times before collapsing on her thighs. A dismayed Toreador was close behind, Deacon fumbling uselessly after. Blood – viscous, Brujah pitch – leaked from Rodriguez's mouth like a red crude oil. It slithered down his chin and plinked onto Kevlar in metronomic drops.

The Ventrue – not taking too kindly to being pushed onto her face like some worthless bully-boy – derived a certain degree of satisfaction in snatching Christie's collar and jerking aside that lookalike girl. "Where were you shot," she demanded, one hand on her gun, the other perched upon a kneecap. It was a compassionless order. There was dirt smudged between her open toes.

Nines wasn't much for communication at present. He wheezed and wheezed and grunted helplessly, surprisingly un-angry with Woeburne's close proximity, but she supposed the bullets inside him had something to do with that. The Brujah's eyebrows were furrowed in distress, face flinched, nose wrinkled into a horrendous snarl. He was clutching at his stomach and puffing something horrible, but there couldn't be lead in it; the angle didn't make sense. Dark droplets showered between huffs and fang; made the Ventrue cringe, brief disgust, when a few spotted her pedicure. He couldn't speak.

Serena could've added her nettling to the bunch – asked him in slow, stupid words: "ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?" – but it was clear enough from his locked expression that Rodriguez wouldn't be able to articulate. It was also clear enough he was _not_ all right. Rather than sit on her hands and gape fearfully at a dumbstruck Anarch, the always-prudent and mostly-rational Ms. Woeburne thought it'd be more helpful to assess his damage. She dropped to a knee for better visuals. She nudged Playboy's calf out of her light. She pushed both hands roughly against Nines's shoulders in a stern attempt to right him, and, avoiding the Brujah's face, searched for obvious gore. There appeared to be very little: bumps, bruises, small cuts, the bloodclotted dents where she'd gouged her nails into the few soft spots of his hands.

"I don't see anything," the Ventrue told them, nose scrunched because she was revolted and because she upset. It felt unnatural and irritating to have to touch him. She might have been complaining. Hair over her scowl; scars in her gown; blood on the white feet inside flat, empire sandals and there was something treacherously auxilia about it all. "There's nothing here. I don't understand; he isn't even... isn't even..."

He was too hurt to stop her or argue. Finding no perforations on Rodriguez's front, Serena stretched up, reached over him far enough to pull them both forward off that blockade, and pressed it away with her palm. She then seized the bottom edge of his jacket to wrench it up. With leather in her fingers, Ms. Woeburne could feel the holes, scent the searing, see the damage done. It was an aggressive action. The fussing made him let out a very embarrassing yawp.

Buckshot scattered his back. There was the problem. There was what made a Baron's mouth bleed.

It was a gruesome display: purple tissues, livid veins, swollen muscle bleeding wherever a fleck of metal had been deeply entrenched. They were like little black star-marks, unsanitary rust. Indeed, some of them were so terribly sharp and had sunk so far as to be hardly visible. Painful, no doubt - excruciating, probably - yet this normally would not have taxed a vampire lined with bulletproof mesh quite as much as Rodriguez let on. The Brujah was hunched up and shaking with the move she had forced. He might've been playacting, but muteness and agony weren't exactly the images of war-glory history books (or showboating rebels) generally picked.

Ms. Woeburne a closer look. Each slug fragment left a telltale coin-shaped dent. Each dent sizzled away at its ridges and smelt sharply of napalm.

_Phosphorus_.

That wouldn't do. That wasn't going to work, at all.

Oxygen whooshed in reverse to a dead creature's center. She stood up with a start and backed away several steps as though the contact might burn - and, indeed, it might have. "Get him inside. All of you get inside. Now. NOW," Serena shrieked when they stared at her.

The haste was threefold. Priority One was the state of their spokesman, but there was still no guarantee all the hunters had left, nor that what flame remained couldn't spread. Furthermore, kine police had delayed, but kine firefighters might not; both would arrive shortly, she was sure, to repair what they could, and to contain the mess a better species made.

Thankfully, a Baron down, the Anarchs checked their natural distrust of government badges and did not contradict her. Deacon and Christie each grappled onto one of his arms; Nines tried to walk on his own then, but could not make either buckling knee lock. They wouldn't let him. So, no other options apparent, two soldiers transported Rodriguez inside – semi-delirious, still spitting ichors – and sat him on a plywood table. He couldn't keep upright. Neither one would make him; as the Brujah tried not to lay on his back, crumpled to a side, and was turned to his breastbone, Serena could already smell the burning, the necrotic flesh. It is an old, old aroma all things that eat animal know. Her kind are polite carnivores; they are still predators of opportunity, swallow-whole beasts who always show first to a kill.

It did not seem possible – though the collar of her dress, the polish on her toes, were peppered in blood – that a king, even a barbarian one, could be so quickly, so simply, silent. It seemed even less real that he might die. There was no time to think about a course of action or the repercussions of failure. They were surely going to kill her. She was not sure which _they_ would fulfill the order first, but if Nines Rodriguez died on this wreck of a wharf, her demise followed; it was unavoidable. You could not think about it. So, instead of thinking, Serena groused _get out of the way!_ She used a familiar switchblade tucked in the Baron's pocket to saw one large surgeon's stripe through his coat; she plucked open bullet-proof patches, peeled layers from lesions. In the short time spent carting him inside, each bit of shrapnel had sizzled deeper. It devoured his armor like cardboard paper. Chemical liquor bubbled around the splinters as they chewed their way through sinew. Hemoglobin – a red as dark as unrefined graphite – left in tributaries from the Brujah's nose and lips. Woeburne could not find a steady point between resent and dismay.

There were a hundred bad endings to this debacle - endings that, guardrails broken, would epilogue straight to disaster. _Two dead lieutenants. _Two dead lieutenants was grave enough an offense, particularly if they held her accountable for Mr. LaCroix's deception, whether or not anyone could prove it_. S_uch a high-caliber casualty would sign Ms. Woeburne's death certificate surely as Sebastian'd make Party-trooper speeches at her casket. Camarilla appeals were futile; their administration could _not_ be implicated in something that stunk of assassination, and would not defend her. She probably wouldn't make it far enough to be executed as a victim of circumstance. Oh, no. If Rodriguez didn't get up off this table (and maybe even if he did), Serena knew a pack of nervous Free-State brutes who weren't likely to let her leave. These had never been the sort of people to press charges or petition courts. They were far more disposed to take their waiting room grief out on the lone Ventrue among them - to smash her joints, twist off her arms, slit her nice throat and watch a forked tongue drowned out by blue.

Could tonight worsen? She didn't think so – but by this point in her Kindred career, Ms. Woeburne wouldn't tempt fate by saying it aloud.

'_I hate to say, puppy: this would be an excellent time to remain calm,'_ reason chimed in. Reason was a lifelong friend, and it seemed like sound advice, so Serena banished her panic and battened down to the important business of _not dying_.

The knife became like a shoddy tweezer in chary hands. Careful not to scald her fingertips, the Foreman wedged its tip beneath one pellet. A frightening simmer rose when steel hit steel. But the stainless brand was sharper than she expected or remembered; it parted flesh like fabrics, a nonpartisan tool, hardly minding who did the stabbing. Rodriguez choked on air stuck inside himself. Then one nippy, unfeeling flick of her wrist – and she levered the scale out of a spasming dorsal. It clinked somewhere into the arcade, began boiling away furniture in milliseconds.

"Oh my God," Kent-Alan rued, lolling behind; she didn't care where.

_Success_ - it made an offer, suggested an out. Not a full triumph, but a step forward, a legitimate _partial_. Excellent news for a desperate Ventrue. The reeling Brujah was somewhat less-enthused; and you could not blame him, barely aware of his surroundings at this point, groan broken into a mastiff yelp that made his followers jump in their hides. Woeburne did her best not to be deterred. Though the woman's absence of heart wanted to hammer, her mind was stark and smart. Conditions otherwise, she probably would've derived some enjoyment from Nines Rodriguez barking like somebody kicked him in the gut.

But because _being here tomorrow_ was in peril, Ms. Woeburne flattened the entire length of her free arm along his spine, an effort to control shifting. Her gums were irritably dry. Her elbow was parked right behind his head and its point alarmed him in the confusion of catastrophic injury.

"Stop moving," she chastened. There was no sympathy in that blueblood voice. Not surprising. There was very little of it left to be had in her soul. Serena felt like she was holding down a larger, uncalm thing that might at any second lose its civility and bite her. You could barely see silver in the corner of his eyes. "Listen to me. You've been shot. You've been _shot_, do you understand? Corrosive ordnance. I'm going to- I'm going to try and remove it." The Ventrue winced, feeling like she was explaining herself, a flimsy taste in an enemy mouth. Panic, no - but something foul, something close. "This will have to be quick. To say it clearly: stay still or you're going to die," Woeburne coldly advised him. The Anarch stiffened, and she was gratified by how slim her voice sounded – how coolly her wrists behaved. They did not shake at all. It seemed like iron had replaced all the fragile, human bones.

If there is something like understanding that happens here, she cannot say. It is too difficult to tell with these awkward positions, physical and political, and the numbness that comes with touching something one does not want to touch. He looked very gray and makeshift beneath the compact translucence of her hands.

"Shit," Rodriguez panted, sounding drunk – speech slured hotly, irony jabbing through the disaster of his nerves. Blood and saliva plinked onto wood like glycerin. Paws white-knuckled the table edge. It was the first thing he'd been able to say since the Pier erupted and the rounds hit. "Your help. I prob'ly _will_ die."

Serena forked the next one out with a little less womanly concern.

"We are fucked. Fucked. We can't be here; you have to get that done faster," Deacon was needling, his Sire's handhold leaving noticeable grooves in the neonate's gloves. Christie clutched those fingers as though to keep them obedient and keep them safe at once. Ms. Woeburne couldn't care less about a Anarch grunt's safety, but of this first provision, she appreciated the effort; it kept everyone quiet for a time, made them observers. Observation was not a natural resting place for Brujah. Serena would learn that truth again just as she weeviled under her third bullet scrap; perhaps the _tink_ sound of loose metal was what inspired Deacon to shake his maker's clutch off, begin pestering. Bangs slanted haphazardly across the Ventrue's forehead. Her ligaments grew sore; the space between each finger felt tacky. He had a jettison of chestnut hair beneath the sock cap that must've itched like mad. "We got to move. Now. Like _now_."

"I realize," Woeburne hissed. Thank God she did not drop the blade.

Her audience was untouched. "Watch what you're doing," Deacon shouted when another fragment tinked what was perhaps too near. Ryan jumped and flustered. A moment's distraction – one caused by them – and this was the feedback? Christie just hugged in her arms.

"I _am_ watching. What in the hell else would I do?"

"I don't know," he thundered - except the thunder was a squeal and his clean, even teeth clapped when they tried to grind. "I don't fucking know; _you're_ the Camarilla. You said to do this. You're-"

"I AM A DOMESTIC CLERK." Tension from the head, spine, arteries to the tailbone. Century-old vitae slicked her arms from fingernails to elbows. It smelled awful to her – God, awful! – a rawness like smoke, uncooked venison and petrol. Ventrue blood had no such connotations. Ms. Woeburne began to sicken, grow woozy. The scent of carnage, or maybe the action of it, made her lightheaded and extraordinarily nauseous.

"I am a _Foreman," _she lamented, raggedly, when they went silent; someone had to speak. "Do you understand what that means? I'm a bureaucrat. A diplomatic assistant. A junior officer." She pried two more slivers from where they'd been steaming. Each wracked a flinch and a hurt-wolfhound hunch through the Anarch. Her breath grew patchy. His was much worse. "You want to know what I am? I am _pencil-grinder_. I am a _door-holder_. I push someone else's papers around someone else's office. There's your fascist snake for you," the Camarilla spat. Her fingertips were nonsensically sore. She could feel a sour heat leaking somewhere inside. "I hope you're satisfied. I hope you choke on it. Here's your bloody _fucking_ cobra."

"Jesus, Ventrue," Rodriguez began, but the pain broke his voice too early; it bared his teeth, spattered darkness between his hands. One fist hammered the wood beneath him and made everything shake. Serena worked her pocketknife past a stringy band that felt like a tendon. Everything was slippery and stinging; she was glad she could not see the distortion of a crippled Brujah's face.

"Don't move. Don't," she flared; pitch, hackles, hood. "I do not owe you this."

Nines had no reply - either because he was humbled, or because he was trying not to die.

_'Maybe both,'_ Serena decided, as it gave her a little pleasure to think so.

"How much time do you think he...?"

"It doesn't matter. I think we're all right. I'm nearly - I might be done," Christie was told. The reassurance lacked warmth, antiseptic as an airline pilot, even as Woeburne's triceps began to decline. Strangely enough, her disrespect was the only factor holding composure together. If it had been a clanmate – if it had been _anyone_ else, really – the bloody-fucking-cobra knew sanity would've flown out a window with its discount glass. The beds beneath her nails were itching fiercely; perhaps it was acid burn, perhaps it was a Baron's blood, perhaps it was the segue of stress.

She extracted all but a single chip; this last was so small, it burnt out before her blade could remove it, fading beneath more treacherous pieces. The entire procedure took roughly two minutes of precision haste. Ms. Woeburne preferred accuracy over speed, but there was none to spare; you could not let your rival's spinal column weld into his guts, nor could you admit, for the illness it brought, that you might well have touched his bones beneath the holes. It felt like hours. It felt, God save her, like cutting a kind of meat. Serena grimaced at the gruesomeness of a scheme collapsed.

"Oh, sod," stumbled out; it was a bothered whimper, something sick. Was it even kosher to have tactile contact Anarchs of one's own volition - circumstances null? Potholes steamed in the frayed muscle, cauterized and devastated, each an inch apart. She pinched the bridge of her nose to block out sulfur fumes still lingering outside, putting an absentminded smear on either side. They were fingerprints in tar. She was wearing blood like warpaint.

Never mind that wearing enemy blood for your warpaint was an incredibly conqueror thing to do.

They'd looked at her like all desperate men did when that final shell was ripped away.

"Done, then," was all need be said; indeed, she, and it, was. Three mechanical steps backward took the Foreman away from him as though field medicine had been a biology project, inanimate and formaldehyde-dead; these were the speechless sorts of messes. Plasma sopped from the table, stained her cuticles. Ms. Woeburne shook them out. She about-faced and stepped out of their stopgap emergency room, her sandals navigating the bullet wedges that still fused themselves to the floor. Brujah replaced her on every side. Their split wrists queued up to restore LA's ensanguined chief; they paid the retreating Camarilla very little mind.

"Ventrue?" their Baron coughed out before she could shove through the arcade's kitchen door. He was trying to lift himself on his forearms - a slumping, punchy, frowning creature. Soldiers crowded around him. He coughed one last spatter of blood.

"I'm done," she repeated, throat tight, in case the verdict went unheard. Serena was aware she must have looked very odd and disheveled. Her posture was perpetually stuck at aggressive; her attire had grown savage with scuffs, tears and too many types of vitae. He searched with unhappy confusion. You could hear his wounds _plink-plink_. "You're done. That's it."

If Nines Rodriguez could scowl it all into making sense, there would be a different march in LA tonight.

"Where the hell are you goin'?" he asked.

It was nearly two o'clock in the California morning. She looked at him with his blood on her face and she gave the only answer _those-peoples_ had.

"Back," Ventrue said.

Then, according to her word - though they might be lies, good corporals were staunchly true to their words - she swept numbly into the staff bathroom, stripped her dress and set to it. Adrenaline exorcised shock. The night was finished. For better or for worse – _'much worse, perhaps,'_ she thought, standing there on flat soles in her underwear, wrists hell again, twisting on hot water until it would scorch – this was finished, and that was a half-done relief.

It had been, after all, the easy part.

She had no immediate thought of the future. She knew only that she had to tear the bad color from her body, erase the offense, scald off the skin.

Serena plunged breathless into Seashore Arcade's industrial sink, rinsed the muck from the tresses; scrubbed legs and feet with a washcloth; scoured stains off the balls of her hands. Simply being _clean_ was insanely, nonsensically restorative. The woman washed herself quickly and quietly. Paleness sloughed off to a painful, pristine pink. Soap-soft hair slouched a dark chocolate around temples and cheekbones. It felt cold. In the burn of these last few minutes, it felt wonderful.

Satisfied - decontaminated - she wrung the moisture from her gown and tugged it on. Damp fabric adhered uncomfortably to shoulders and hips, but it did not bother; not like that white phosphorous had, not like the enemy's vitae. She welcomed the squish of wet velvet and black fibers in a drain. Band-aids, bar soap, suntan lotion, makeup canisters - they tumbled out of the overhead cabinets and into the suds. Ms. Woeburne rummaged through them with clumsy, halfhearted hope. She reapplied the darkest lipstick she could find; she did not bother with the rest. It was only enough to make her look human. Those were the only shades that mattered.

There was only a moment in which Serena stopped to clutch the porcelain and exhale.

Then she mopped the lingering stink of Nines Rodriguez's blood off her arms with _Citrus Zest_ antibacterial napkins, stole a sedan, and drove calmly back to the party.


	37. Tumbling After

**Tumbling After  
**

Lily slid through the the dingy door to the dingier apartment, nearly broke an ankle on a console controller, and cursed her way to Knox Harrington.

"Snap. How'd that get over there?" the ghoul wondered, as much concern as he felt he ought to have, mouth full of Italian sub. Knox was sitting cross-legged on the ragged sofa – a vintage green, crosshatched catastrophe – paper stacks surrounding him. His fingers smeared mustard grease. His eyes, their usual electric gold, crinkled in greeting, expression caught between a meaty bite and apology. "My bad. I'm a freaking slob, dude. Total lost cause. Sorry about that," he managed through the lettuce, smelling like garlic, highlighter and printer ink. One or two flakes escaped the parameters of his mouth and disappeared with the lint between those ugly cushions. "In other news, though: welcome back?"

'_Garlic,'_ Lily noticed, hopped to their sofa, and - with for snort to herself - pulled at the four toes she'd stubbed.

The thin-blood had been living with Knox Harrington at the top of this three-story Santa Monica low-rise (which was marginally less crappy than her Nissan's backseat) for two weeks now; his apartment, a double-bedroom outfit, sat right above Devil's Brand Tattoo Parlor. It was an odd place with an odd arrangement attached. He'd offered her "somewhere to crash" that night in Asp Hole mainly out of pity; she'd accepted mainly out of desperation. Lily had nothing to lose at that unproud low. And, while her new room didn't look like much of a Den – his "study" was still cramped with its newspaper clippings, musty magazine articles and squeaky, overflowing bookshelves – a roof was better than the blue backseat of tiny cars. She slept on a platform mattress sans the platform and did so gratefully. A Caitiff couldn't be picky; an orphan ought to look past unshaded lamps, ceiling cobwebs, cold wood and occasional ants. A stray had no grounds to complain.

Safety was a more precious commodity than carpet, anyway. Harris couldn't claim piece-of-mind in this decayed rib of a neighborhood - stepping on centipedes, napping long hours, sharing a refrigerator with another vampire's ghoul - but anything improved on homelessness. Some nights, she would sit on her bed with a starchy quilt and stare through that single window, view fogged by old glass and streetlights. Trip's Pawnshop catered to strange thieves; Gallery Noir down the block fostered obscure art; the Mercy Hospital next door never felt large or well-lit enough. It was a bizarre mix of clandestine and creative in this city. Santa Monica's feeding opportunities were... diverse, to say the least - from smoky head shops to the fetish clubs that thrummed till dawn - and yet there was an aura of danger. Genteel times had been eaten away by the Pacific as drifters washed through. She knew where her yesterday friends camped; she was still not sure which alleys and which beaches were legal grounds for them to hunt.

And there was a new host to consider. Moving in with some stranger – some hyper, jittery twenty-five-year-old whose sobriety status she seriously questioned – sounded harebrained, even to Lily; nevertheless, it had also seemed like her only option. Fortunately, two supernatural rejects cohabited well. Knox was something of a weirdo, true: he could be juvenile, at times; distracted, itchy and frustrating; complete with the bad habit of leaving snack cartons scattered around. Other times, however, the excitable ghoul was all she could've asked for in a roommate. He was diligent about bills (if not the dishes), pooled resources, boarded up their windows every morning without being asked, made no issue of her femaleness, and above all - above all, he always looked happy to see her.

It was hard to describe how important that was. She didn't have the words or the courage to try.

Lily Harris learned an important lesson from the failure of loss: if you'd check your suspicions, forget your attractions, buckle up your real-world boots and pull that stick out of your ass, people could surprise you. That rule went both ways - the wrong men you liked and the boys you didn't want to. Barons and last-choice buddies were the same question in judgment. The immediacy of her trust was foolish, maybe, but powerless people had fewer seats to protect, fewer motives to manipulate. She was a secondhand Childe with no high-society associates to her name. And there had been something poignantly human about his reaction to her sorry tale - some genuine, real-time sympathy, the understanding of being a tidepool guppy swept into a gulf. _"That's awful,"_ Knox had said, staring into his folded hands, absorbing the story a kick to the gut. It took him five minutes of thinking; that was all. He brightened like a Bunsen burner. _"Well hell, girlfriend. I can't just, like, leave you hanging; I don't want that on my conscience. Tell you what. You can prop up at my crib until you get your own place sorted out."_

Knox's "crib" had been stereotypical of a person his age in several ways: unmade sheets, fruit flies on apple bowls, lights left on. But there were a handful of creepy outliers - of things that shouted, to any normal creature, _leave_. It was a sort of feeling you got on the lip of a frightening film. A fine layer of dust frosted the place, thickening appliances and cabinet handles, staining the chairs he'd apparently carpentered himself. Loose camera gear cluttered in unusual quantities – lenses, zoom scopes, shoeboxes of memory cards – which Harrington explained was normal for a moonlighting photographer. More bizarre, though, was the sheer wealth of books he'd accumulated. _Paranormal Schools of the Late 1800s _(every edition), an outdated copy of _Glossary Occult_, and conspiracy theories that would roll those paranormal scholars' eyes crowded every room. Though the notion might've been hard to stomach, Knox read even faster than he talked, ripping through databases in solitary nights. Lily didn't question his good intentions; she merely wondered at his mental wholeness.

She resituated on the uncomfortable couch, a pillow button gouging her thigh. Knox sat cross-legged in the opposite corner – dinner on his lap, pop can on the coffee table, and paperwork clustered about. Her roommate's faded band shirt was rumpled in the way of those who didn't bother with drying machines. Prickly brown hair jutted out above large ears. Lily, full of boredom and fatigue, dethreaded the edges of her denim shorts for what felt like longer than it was.

"Knox, you've got onion on your knee," she informed him. The ghoul glanced down at his pinstriped lounge pants with some bewilderment.

"Whoa. Nasty. How long has that been there?" He peeled off and flung the slice for a nearby trash can. It sutured to a plastic side and stuck. "Where the hell did those napkins get to? I'd have gotten you a BLT or something if… well, you know. But hey, girl," the young man remembered, twisting around to Lily, notebook at one side and an absent pen splotch rubbed into his nose. She had been out hunting tonight. "Enough about me and my Subway malfunctions. How did it go?"

"OK," the Caitiff said, flinging off her flip-flops. They smacked on the ground, one after the other. _Whap-thup. _ Long fingers did their best to massage the throbbing from her swollen heel; she'd always nagged at E that these damn violent videogames were hazardous to public health. "It went fine. Some waiter. Works at that cheesy diner right down Main Street; _Surfside_. He was pretty lame. But I cleaned him up after and laid him down, just across the street, outside - what's that place called? The Asylum. I figure everybody'll think he's a drunk, or something. I mean, for what it's worth: I didn't take very much." Lily kept a careful mind not to overindulge these days, and despite her caution, this task was harder than it should've been. She usually compensated for dull senses by nursing off two or three victims per hunt, never swigging more than a few measly pints from each. Feeding was an unsatisfying and awkward experience for her. She would rather feel sloppy than whimper home with the guilt of being a killer.

"Cool." The story had taken too long; Knox went back to his work, flipping pages, squinting them down. Neon gold roved over the tidy black typeface. She got a little annoyed.

"What are you up to?" Lily asked. It was rare Harrington didn't clamber for vampire stories - because to him, she still was one, no less a Kindred for owning lesser blood.

He shrugged. "Nothing special. Just some stuff for my master I've got to look at. You know: work, work, work. That's all I do!" The ghoul ruffled a search for their remote, then, distracted by business and his shedding sandwich. "Want to watch something?" Knox suggested, locating the control and tossing it over. "Don't worry; won't bother me. Multitasking is one of my natural talents. Plus I think _House_ is on. Aw, man - don't tell anybody this, dude, but I'm practically a hypochondriac."

Cinematic thrombosis and hemophiliac melodrama didn't seem appealing to a bashful monster who'd recently filled her belly with blood. "Got any good movies?" Lily wondered instead, butting in before he sparked up another monologue; stream-of-consciousness was something her friend easily lost himself to. "Want me to run to Blockbuster, or something?"

"Nah, girl! We got Netflix. Flip on what you want. But no lame chick flicks. Unless it's _Joe Versus the Volcano_."

The thin-blood decided _Riddick_ might win a laugh and clicked it on, trying her best to tune out all this noise, wind-down. Airships crashes and sun-baked deserts didn't catch attentions like the hungry things did. Her twisted ankle rotated experimentally. One nail, a gross pink pastel, began to trace the constellation of freckles up her calf and around the adjacent kneecap. Tiny brown dots; they clustered at every corner, under every clothing. Mom used to call her Dapples when she'd been a kid, after the speckled gray thoroughbreds she and Uncle Jonas raised in Oregon. They'd just buried a limping, white-maned brood mare when she'd flown out to California for school. Her mother spun stories for a teary gathering of little cousins about Horse Heaven and soldiered on with ranch affairs, but blubbered like a baby later, when she and Lily left a wreath of bluebells in the empty stall. God, Lily missed Mom so bad it made her stomach hurt.

She thought of going back so many times. Mom loved her. Mom would understand. Mom wouldn't say things like insane and dangerous or call up clean coats to put her away. And yet here came that nagging feeling, frightened and so _sure_, a dark spot in the underworkings of her mind: there is nothing left for you there. Spring foals, saddle oil and vanilla cakes collapsing under candles were memories that belonged to someone else – made by someone else's mother – for some other girl. Better to endure the curse she'd crossed than risk having that destroyed. Better to be alone in Los Angeles than face the possibility all those freckled faces wouldn't love her anymore.

"So what kind of work does Betram have you doing tonight?" She pulled her bootstraps out of the melancholy with another question, more forced interest. Riddick was parlaying the advances of some scaly, space opera Lady Macbeth. "I feel kind of shitty about not helping out with the rent. Maybe I can lend you a hand. Need anything sorted or dog-eared?"

"Um." He rolled the proposition about, chewing on an inner cheek. "Nah. No sweat, homegirl. S'all good. Cool of you to offer, though. Besides, it's all junk I should probably read firsthand. Bertram has got me, like... how can I put it?" Having finished supper, the ghoul satisfied his fidgeting urge on a mechanical pencil. He gnawed it out of shape - clacking plastic, lazy tongue, and then he'd accidentally bitten the eraser off. Knox was incapable of sitting still. The pink nub spat into his hand and promptly disappeared into their cushions with shavings, loose-leaf bits and shredded cheese. "I guess you could say that I'm keeping tabs on some of the regulars. Boss says _his_ boss is real cynical about employee loyalties. Got me rooting through a whole crap-load of data. I feel sort of weird about it," he admitted, turning another sheet. Stubby fingers scratched at an ear lobe. "At first I thought – vampires, and all – this job would be Double-Oh-Seven stuff, right? But it's not. Not usually, anyway - usually it's just a bunch of personal e-mail and appointments and random shit like that. Kind of disappointing. But, hey: just goes to show you how easy it is for someone to go through your stuff. Big Brother's alive and kickin,' dude; and he's, like, snooping around Your Documents."

Harris hadn't expected spywork, but it was congruent with what she saw and learned about Harrington – his habits, his talents, how his brain shut down without constant stimulation. This flow of excitement it demanded left him with gratuitous motivation; he had both time and mind-power enough to develop diverse skill sets, to sniff things down. He would have made a good private eye, Lily thought. Or, from what she knew - though not altogether well - a relentless, dogmatic hunter.

"How do you get a hold of all this data, anyway?" the thin-blood pondered, reaching for a sheaf of papers. Knox sprang before they made contact, defensively hugging the heap to his hunched-forward chest. They crumpled beneath protective elbows. She relaxed. He breathed quickly, let the tightness drop.

"Hoo-wow, see what you made me do? Sorry. Little jumpy after all these years; Nosferatu'll get you like this. Ha-ha." He tried to laugh it off. Lily's face drew a cautious, disturbed blank from her slumping edge of sofa. "But really, it's not a big deal," Knox mumbled, trying to melt back into place, unable to soften enough. His nerves hummed audibly through that pointy nose. He reminded her, scrunched reports and honey-bee eyes, of a manic red border collie with kinks in his ears and a constant urge to pace. "Before, uh… you know – all this went down – I was a computer science guy. IT, web security stuff. Had this sweet job set up, too: basically got paid to screw around with community bank websites, see what I could break, so they could test their defense systems. Bounty hunted off it for a while. I'm pretty good at that kind of thing. Not like busting the impenetrable wall of Gmail is exactly a finesse gig, but yeah. I think that's probably why he chose me. My master, I mean. What about you?"

"I don't know. I think I was just there." Lily glanced to the television, to the onset of digital solar-flare. It was painfully relevant. She shifted. Orange hair tangled between palm heel and the dents it left on her cheek. "Computer science. I don't think I could do it. Sounds hard to grasp-"

"That's what she said," blurted out of Knox, dorky and boastful, as he tinkled into giggles.

Lily decided to ignore that tacky joke, use the laughter to her advantage, and pounce for a stray leaflet. She tore two pages in the ensuing scuffle before yanking one away. Harrington dropped his folders in a flutter of parchment; manila scattered across their carpetless floor. He scrambled to pry the thing away from his roommate, but though thin, blood and body, she was faster; a bare foot wedged itself between her stolen sheet and the awkwardly lunging breastbone. They scuffled to the couch's far hemisphere, nearly tumped it over, and upset five towers of books upon the cocktail table before Harris emerged victorious. With a bent shin holding Knox at bay, the vampire hoisted her hard-earned paper overhead and squinted at its conservative font.

**Ms. Woeburne,**

**This is a courtesy message to remind you our coalition report will finalize in approximately two days. Please drop by the Landa property on July 22nd, and my agents will pass it on. I trust everything will be to Mr. LaCroix's satisfaction.**

**Yours in Service,  
Maribeth Gutierrez**

Lily stared numbly through the message until a palm smashed it away.

"No fair!" he wailed, tugging out the wrinkles and scouring over what she'd just seen. Relief and recognition blurred the worry off his expression. It wasn't important; it hadn't compromised. Knox flattened a hand over her e-mail and smoothed new creases over one knee, something that increased the damage, that didn't fix. He could not have known how a simple motion could make the woman's heart freeze. "Hah! - you got me good, girl. Slick moves. Told you it was disappointing. Nothing too special, see? - not worth looking at. I used to think Bertram had me tailing the most boring bloodsuckers of 'em all; Ventrue are strictly business, you know? Turns out, though," he said, finger shaking, tongue clucking, ignorant to how her stomach was dropping, throat closing up. Harris felt dizzy. She could not have read that name. "Turns out this lady's into some freaky shit on the sidelines. Funny name, right? Woeburne. Like, I can't be sure until I get more proof and trace down the outgoing files, but I got this suspicion that she's in with some local Anarchs. Geez-oh-man! If it's true, the boss man's gonna' totally wig-out! Maybe I'll get, like, promoted. I don't know if ghouls get promoted. But that'd be wicked."

"She's not," Lily spat out, coldness seeping up her nerves, a flameless candle. Her tongue was a rock. It didn't speak. Harrington stared.

"Not _what_, girlfriend?"

The Caitiff stiffened her reserve. A heavy strain – of cardiac arrest, of someone tilting cement down her lungs – began to spread. It crawled through the confines of thinly-blooded chest, pushed everything else out. This was a slow, painful, horrible kind of tumble. "Not in with the Anarchs. You can stop wasting your time trying to prove it. Ms. Woeburne wouldn't be caught dead," she announced, fists balled tightly at either hip. Lily shoved past Knox's angular shoulder and stood. Her spine racked into a too-straight ache. "Trust me on this one."

"Uh, hold the phone. How do you even know this b-?" She cut him off.

"That's in no way any of your business. I just do. Or I used to. Look, it was a long time ago, so leave it alone. What the hell does it matter _how_, anyway? Believe me; I know her well enough to tell you that this person would never dream of screwing with the Camarilla like that. You're wasting your time," she grumbled again, aggressive, nausea stinging, false-insides. Blame, fear and resent moldered together in the fledgling's gut. Had this accusation den been _her_ fault? Had the tie been one she'd dragged upon them? It hardly bore thinking about; there was nothing some runt could do to mitigate betrayals - not hers, and not anyone else's. _Still_. Still, much as she might've been terrified of Serena's wrath, humiliated by Rodriguez's neglect, Lily sickened at the prospect her hand played in Ms. Woeburne's mess.

She had no definitive answers, and the self-exonerating_ 'I couldn't have known,'_ was not fulfilling consolation. _'E was right. I should have stayed out of this vampire shit.'_

Lilt felt suddenly and incredibly tired. She could have slept an age in that moment. Instead, the Caitiff scraped all ten fingers over her cheekbones and puffed out one long, sluggish, lifeless breath. She didn't want to see out. She didn't want, didn't like, to talk about bosses or should-haves anymore.

"Just wait, all right? Wait there," the Kindred said - and Knox didn't press, didn't argue, tried not to follow her out. "I'm going tochange into my PJs."

He moved to hit pause, or maybe to speak. But an alarm disrupted him and it stopped them both.

**CIVIL ALERT** blared across the screen.

**WE INTERRUPT YOUR SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING TO DELIVER AN EMERGENCY ACTION NOTIFICATION REQUESTED BY THE CALIFORNIA STATE POLICE DEPARTMENT. IMPORTANT INFORMATION WILL FOLLOW.**

**7/26 02:14: DUE TO A SUSPECTED TERRORIST THREAT IN SANTA MONICA, ALL MAJOR INBOUND AND OUTBOUND HIGHWAYS ARE CLOSED INDEFINITELY. NATIONAL SECURITY FORCES IN THE AREA ASSURE RESIDENTS THAT THE SITUATION IS UNDER CONTROL AND NO IMMEDIATE DANGER IS PRESENT. AUTHORITIES NEVERTHELESS URGE CITIZENS TO REMAIN IN THEIR HOMES UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.**

**MESSAGE WILL REPEAT UNTIL REVOKED.**

The warning scrolled another time - and then another, siren shrill - before dropping to a dumb, angry blink on the blackness of screen.

"Huh? _What_?" the ghoul said, human redundancy. Knox bounced forward on their furniture, eyebrows forking for his scraggly hairline. He stood up and sat down and stood up again. She lurched over the couch back for that remote and switched to a news station; anxious, exaggerated banners of _Destruction on the Pier_ streamed through. There were first-responders at the scene to stand outside of blockades and pretend to know more. There were somber-faced women who sat with coffee cups and argued in ties. There was a rush, a jumble; they said nothing to one another right away. They watched.

"Holy shit, homes! Good thing we kept it low-key tonight! I better… I dunno' – I better call Bertram or something! Oh, man. _Santa Monica_. Boss is going to be pissed as fuck!"

Lily watched a moustached anchorman drone concernedly at her – let images of burning carousel ponies flash by in neat little boxes, distant but close. Carnival flags lit fire and flittered dismally into dark, thin air. Car tracks smoldered into asphalt. Spent bullet casings melted against the sidewalks in splotches of copper, silver, something foul. The woman swallowed, feeling faint.

"Turn it down," she asked, not knowing what, not knowing why. "I'll be right back."

_Message will repeat. _

"Crazy old world we live in, girlfriend," Knox sighed, saw his roommate turn away, and twisted the volume all the way up.


	38. Wandering Soul

**Wandering Soul**

Venture Tower was exactly Eugene Walker expected: officious, deco-Roman, bitter black-and-white.

"Well. Look at what has wandered in. Another thin-blood?" asked the lobby receptionist - face gorgeous, body cold, telephone hanging, somehow not asking him at all. She glanced E a condescending head-to-toe. "Come here, please! You really must. Let's see what it has to do here."

Not that there was much to see of the man who stepped forward, reluctant obedience. His was a commonplace story: plain, poorly-fitting jeans, slouching tennis shoes, slicked-back ginger over a bony, forgettable profile. And it went without saying that the Caitiff's general aura of lostness did not impress this haute couture Toreador. _'Twice on this very same shift. I wonder who sends them? Preserve me; Mister LaCroix does not pay enough for finding out, and certainly not for babysitting.' _

Even now that sad little thing was inching closer, as though he could've possibly had some legitimate purpose waltzing into a Prince's headquarters. Oh, Joelle was not unreasonable; she'd humored the first one who stumbled in as a novel distraction, something offbeat to distract her, but Act Two began to grate. Entertaining mislaid orphans with misguided agendas wasn't as charming the second time around. She gave one elegant, irritated sigh before bidding farewell to Line Three and setting down the black receiver.

"Er. Hello. Good evening," was E's best salutation, accent toneless, overlooking the vicious quality of those dismissive, painted eyes. Her look was thin. Dramatic shadow flared around catty, reddish brown. Beauty wasn't comforting; he had scant experience dealing with vampires, and even less of the menacingly corporate Camarilla, nothing but Lily's rants. Conditioned mistrust for their parasitic species and the lingering, human fear of government abuse didn't do wonders for tight stomachs, either. There were very few incentives powerful enough to nudge him into this monolith of obsidian and steel.

His Sire dropping off the grid was among them. A pier smouldering ash and auto parts over their castaway beach was another.

"Hi, there," the Caitiff tried again, forcing a smile to push out anxiety. E pushed both hands into his pants pockets. Acid burbled unpleasantly in the pit of his lukewarm gut. "Sorry to bother you, ma'am. I won't take up much of your time. But I was hoping that I could speak with a Ms. Woeburne. Serena Woeburne," he clarified, noting her unimpressed expression. The Ventrue's workplace was right, if nothing else; there was no mistaking this particular address.

This request gained the woman's interest, but only marginally. It was a briefer and more brittle attention than glimpses given by sleepy Siamese cats - long muzzles and lovely, wicked pupils offsetting how they crossed. It banished. His nerves all felt snarled up. "Is that your hope? How curious you would want to speak. May I, before anything else, wonder why?"

And then it was that E realized he had no excuse, no alibi, no real reason behind this mad move for a name they both knew. His mind raced like a rat with its ribs out. Each scuttle or flick made that feline nose _twitch_. "Nothing too interesting, I'm afraid. Personal issues. Usually we'd meet on our own time, schedule something; just everyday work. But I know she's an employee of some standing here, so I'd really appreciate you patching me through. I'm a..." ("Friend" would probably waste a perfectly good lie.) "I'm a business associate."

Thinly-tweezed eyebrows rose on the buttery, rouged visage. She was preternaturally ravishing. And gallingly domestic. And very, very _scarlet_. "I doubt that highly," the receptionist said, pretty lids crinkling; her gentleness was insulting, but her luxurious alto still bewitched. She swept out a patronizing smile for him. Before E could think of protesting, Joelle had already put-putted her desk chair away and was typing up a memo on her callous company PC.

Bare teeth, filed claws, coats that taunted with their softness and bite. These are the threats of predators, human or beast. A cat could pick up one comely paw and swat the little pestering things long before its supper came. When you are a small fish, you'd be better of boring it than letting those whiskers bristle deadly, those nails extend, and each velvet ear turn to point at you. "Well, she's a client, to be specific," was E's saving grace. He couldn't afford to splinter to shambles; composure was all a prey animal had. Play it calm, shuffle slowly, and your dullness might convince big hunters to pass on. A modest grin fought back against her lofty one in harmless, private ways.

"Oh, no," the Kindred disagreed, a tut of her tongue, the most powder-room _denied _there was. "Forgive me, so sorry: but that couldn't possibly be the right way, at all. Far more likely that _you_ are a client of _hers_. And it is still very, very unlikely." Her manners poisoned, inebriated. It was allure, yes, but was a malicious, malignant vein; you could feel its needles _pip_, _squish_, pin through the fat of your most vulnerable places. Honed predators sunk for the fleshy parts. Minnows went down in a crunch, crunch, gulp. "But if a Foundation representative no longer desires your 'business' - why, then, my dear sir, it isn't _my_ business to interfere. That is just the way commerce is sometimes. There are no hard feelings, I'm s-"

"Can I be straightforward with you, ma'am? I'm on a job for her at the moment. Nothing worth worrying about, to be sure – just something I know she's been waiting on. Ms. Woeburne will be glad to hear everything is ready whenever she's available. Rub is that I can't seem to get through at her home phone. Here's where I've been calling." Fingers fished out, flattened and delivered a slip of post-it paper with Serena's cellular printed neatly across one bar. He passed it over the countertop for her perusal. Onyx enamel smelled frightfully of bleach. She was incensed for having been interrupted; E wasn't sure how he knew, because the woman, skeptical and placid, hadn't said anything else at all. "You can give her my name if it'll help. It's Harris. Eugene Harris."

He was afraid of being unremembered. His was not a letter that stuck.

She paid him very little mind - unaware of the change, not much caring. Walker or Harris made no difference to creatures like these. It was an understood fact, two very different levels on a ranked tier, yet untruths made his head throb. Every fib fed a surreal, out-of-body sensation of doom. He could feel it - pounds of something like wet, mossy dirt – what Rosie called _the Jihad_? – shoveled higher, making him faint. A handful of sentences in, and the weight was asphyxiating. He tried to breathe and felt dizzy off chemicals. Everything was sinisterly clean.

Including the woman before him - who twisted around, ignored his suggestion, and shut him short with a pierce of her squint. E's hand retracted from the only shred of proof he had. It was only a telephone number - digits etched in pencil, barely a thread between them. He might as well have been a beetle under microscope. His legs tried, and failed, to crawl away.

"Well, _Eugene Harris_, on any other day I would certainly do this little thing for you," she soothed, blinking at him, mildness that belittled. False happiness ran over the plastic of perfect cheeks, hidden flaws. The monitor glow morphed attraction - it turned her crimson lipstick a gangrene, deep-bruise purple. Theatre French sang over his half-right name. "But I'm afraid tonight it would be impossible."

E waited for her to elaborate; she did not. He was terribly aggravated, but mostly dismayed, as Venture Tower's sentry returned to her keyboard with no more concern left. "Why?" the thin-blood pressured, struggling to keep both feelings from showing on his brow. The creased square of paper – the only evidence of his valid but flimsy connection to Serena – was flung into a nearby trash can.

Manicured hands fluttered, jumped ruby lapels, and landed neatly upon her breastbone. "Why – because, monsieur, she is not here."

"She isn't-? _What_? Where is she?" E forgot his deference and his back-story. Alarm knocked into the makeshift façade; it cracked his voice; he groped to regain a middle-measure with some difficulty. "I mean," the Caitiff fumbled, digesting how it hurt, arguing when seemed impossible to talk. "That's no real problem. If you'd be kind enough to let me know where I can reach her, I'll just set this up at Serena's convenience. Actually, you know - here's a better idea. Your policy probably discourages you from handing out numbers to some guy off the street. So if it's easier, you could tell her to call me the next time she comes in. It doesn't have to be this evening."

"No, dear sir. Pardon. I am afraid we have misunderstood one another. A meeting will not be possible. You see, it is not simply that your - so sorry - your associate," she quoted, a mean little laugh, not bothering to hide behind the three fingertips across that flawless mouth. "Isn't _here_ in our building. No, of course not. You will not be able to see her because she has left Los Angeles, mon chér. Now." A spiteful, offensive bat of mascara, of butterfly lashes. Both hands, smelling of jasmine, folded themselves beneath her chin. It was a dreamy, mocking way to be flippant. This vivacity was the terrible kind. "Is there anything that I can do for you in the meantime? If not… well! I am sure you can see yourself out, no? Good night, Mister Harris."

E's belly clenched, adrenaline fizzing salt blocks in the organs that still worked. His insides squirmed with nausea. It tasted like good old-fashioned stage-fright; it made his danger-sense scream. "Left?" he heard himself repeat. "Left to where? When will she be back? She _will_ be back...?"

He saw the vampire's shoulders stiffen. Her demeaning, secretarial smile fell to a neutral – and moderately annoyed – horizontal. "Monsieur, I think you already know I am not at liberty to tell you that," she informed him, pinky over the enter key. Between her first answer and the second, Ms. Lefevre plucked out a curt smattering of typeface, interest waning until his voice was nothing but a pale, afterthought noise. "As to your next question – I cannot tell you this, either, as I do not know. Business is always touch-and-go for us. So regretful that I cannot be of more help. But I imagine she will away for some time. Call it a professional hunch." One lightning-fast, provocative wink.

Anger tightened E's muscle - all of them, every one, from the cushion on jowls to the arches of both feet. It was a natural response to being teased, being deflected; his knees locked beneath their pant legs; frustration boiled. His mouth compacted into a furious point before better sense smoothed it out_. 'Keep your head about you,' _he thought, something that started out weak consolation, and had become a mantra to getting_ out. 'You have to keep it on.'  
_

One chilly breath fortified him. E leant forward on the welcome desk, amicably informal, and gritted out his most charming empathy. "Listen. I hate to put you in an awkward position. Really don't mean to cause any trouble for you, Miss…?"

"Joelle," she cooed, brisk and uncaring. Three whacks of a spacebar and the Toreador was back to tipping away.

"Joelle. But I really do need to speak with Ms. Woeburne – just for a minute, that's all. I'd be grateful for anything you could do for me. Anything at all. I know I'm asking you to go out on a limb, here, but it's the only limb I've got. And if you could help me - help me only to figure out where she's gone, nothing else - even just slide me a hint..."

Lefevre tilted her head away from him. The anesthetic, unnatural light of that machine shifted; it sparkled cosmetics, lanced a ponytail of off-caramel color, demonized her elegant neck. "Nowhere you would be able to follow, I am sure," was the solitary clue. It gave nothing. For a heart-sinking moment, E thought Serena was dead.

But then she threw a line. It was gamey, soggy bait on a rusty old hook - but it flung out, nonetheless: "Nighttime airfare is outlandish. We sympathize, and the LaCroix Foundation apologizes for any inconvenience our actions may have caused you. However, I am afraid that – for now – you will just have to be patient and wait to see when she might return. That is all I am pleased to say. Enjoy the rest of your evening, sir."

"I'm not asking for your firstborn child, here," E insisted; he tried to joke, but that nudge was goaded desperation. There came a point of crumbling. There came a minute when you couldn't fake the friendliness anymore. "I just-"

"With respect, monsieur, I am very busy at the moment." Joelle's ultimatum was as basic as a small, inhospitable, much less-poignant sigh. Her fingers never left their home keys. "As such, I would like to avoid wasting our valuable time by paging security to escort you outside, but one does what one must. You understand, yes? Yes."

The collared bitch smiled at him. What choice did he have but to shove fists deeper into his pockets and turn away?

"Bonne nuit, Mister Harris! Et bonne chance! I hope you find your belle."

She called it after his back like a kitty-cat yowl.


	39. Business Class Exile

**Business Class Exile**

It was massive, chrome and ungainly. It defied most simple adjectives in Ms. Woeburne's vocabulary. It was sitting obtusely in a concrete court of Astroturf, meaningless statues, and diesel tracks – and it was underscored by the scent of seagull meat rotting in lake water.

It was a great big motherfucking bean.

_'Do_ y_ou know,'_ the Foreman mused, expression blank, searching for a glimmer of her black suit in the thing's reflection. She couldn't find it, and this had nothing to do with being undead. _'I'm not a Toreador. There is art I should appreciate that I don't. But given that, I still have no idea why __anyone with half a working brain drops a monster legume in the middle of an otherwise perfectly good city park.'_ Relevance was completely lost at the foot of a spoked black Tower and a stumped blueblood. _'All that mob money, and this is what they do with it? 'Cloud Gate' my supercilious Ventrue ass.'_

If this was high art in Midwest America, the Prince's Childe decided she might actually be satisfied with her status as a corporate troglodyte.

She stared into the obtuse silver a moment longer before enough was enough, and - shaking her head, feeling a little better having made some empty criticisms - Serena shouldered her portfolio bag to move on. It was easy to forget her stung ego in the slow wash of people traffic. Harder, though, to forget what had sent her out here - ousted off, downgraded from a seashore, smelling the musk of an unnatural lake. Miles away from the tumult of Los Angeles and you still could not find a slice of real peace. Dull voices tangled; this modest pedestrian path was cramped for being so late, cobbled through what little August left of flower gardens, more ivy than petals, burnt leaves in the trees. Someone ate a meat sandwich; someone else reeked of alcohol. She didn't enjoy either smell, and so the woman pushed farther away from this well-lit main square, leaving the nighttime trickle off Michigan Avenue behind. She wound off somewhere less conspicuous with cicadas and car engines at her back. It was just as well, anyway; Ms. Woeburne didn't believe in the therapeutic rumor of quiet walks, but she did believe in being alone, and also in being discreet.

Her stout heeled shoes began to echo as the tourists faded. Serena dodged a beachbound cyclist and climbed the long, spinal aluminum bridge, ignoring color and art, until most of this park was lain out beneath her. It was a good place to watch, a nice freshwater breeze. She stopped at the middle and leant both elbows on a banister that hung over taxis, buses, joggers, red lights stuck in oblivious cars. Joggers wandered some sixty feet below. Even in nightfall, the metallic backbone felt hot beneath bare fingers - something that made no sense with wind scraping through short hair, squinting the envious color from her eyes. She put her sleeves over it. She swatted a mosquito. She tried to be content.

Ms. Woeburne told herself, as she always did, that it wasn't so bad as it seemed.

All the fountains and niceties had been shut off by this hour. Beneath her, hardly soothing, rushed one rill off a steelwork city. It nudged and shoved and squawked in horns. They were all the same sort of beast, you know, despite how fiercely big names strove for specialness, how odd their statues were. If she were to tune out local aromas and accents and this stuffy modern architecture, the unwanted Ventrue could easily pretend to be in California again. There were all the beeps, the oil fumes, even the sound of surf. Strain a bit - meditate (though she didn't believe in that, either) - and it might as well have been London, New York, a townhome in Leeds.

Ms. Woeburne was not sent here for sightseeing. Did insecure young Patricians ever have the leisure or the stupidity to marinate in their surroundings when there was work to be done? She focused, searching for her quarry among people that merely looked - looking for things to talk to, to eat. The contempt growing in her breastbone for such people frightened Serena. It had not been so long ago, or perhaps it had been - perhaps decades were all inhumanity needed - a different individual than the one she currently was. Who knew if the resentment of predators for they prey is ever justified. It made a convenient excuse for what had to be done to them, at least. And you never spent much effort worrying over them, anyway - not in a leadership clan - not when there were more important things demanding her attention than purposeless kine and this toughboy city's cement. The very reason she'd been sent to it, for instance.

Chicago had not been entirely welcoming.

It was a premature, yet not inaccurate, judgement. Fledglings - especially banished ones - shouldn't expect much courtesy from a foreign Domain, no, but Serena got none. _None_ was a particularly distressing figure for one scam-buried agent whose Sire staunchly declared that he could no longer stomach her "insipid, colorless face" puttering about his tower.

She made no attempt to deceive him. She would never make that mistake again. Not that creative lies would've worked; Sebastian had anticipated his Childe's efforts to self-preserve, categorized them, and made them something useful rather than something worse. It did not matter if sinking-ship syndrome was the nature of young Ventrue or solely her own - he predicted it with fearful accuracy. Prince LA had also trusted Ms. Woeburne's response time far more than she'd dared to; he knew a pinched Foreman would preserve Camarilla good intentions second only to her life, even balancing there on the stepping stool's edge, neck in a noose. He knew that pressure refined a corporate runner's genuine face. In a very real sense, Mr. LaCroix had puppeteered her, careening, into Los Angeles's 'Anarch problem' - he'd wrenched his corporal out of Rodriguez's hands and fired her back at them on that bloody pier. And then the man who made her forecast the most trite, embarrassing thing of this all: that she would come scrambling back to him like some feudal lord's birder, like that hunting lion on a chain.

Sebastian was unimpressed to find her on his way out of Giovanni Mansion, sitting in a stolen car, asphalt-scuffed and composure closer to tatters than the dress she wore. And, though the condescending claims Serena _never_ operated outside his political eye were true, Prince LaCroix wasn't one for easy forgiveness.

It was a moderate punishment, really - a psychological penance - a soft, productive exile.

Two nights ago, on a gravel road of suburban California, Sebastian had pulled his Childe's red hands out of her pockets. He bared all her petty schemes. And he then screamed her almost to the verge of tears – a harrowing notion; one she did not appreciate dwelling on – before handing a last chance, a life boat, the best option failures like her ought to take. It was an eight o'clock into O'Hare. It was prepaid for one person. It was business class.

It was not roundtrip.

* * *

Ms. Woeburne had not needed a lecture to know she was in deep shit.

To say that she'd gone "scrambling back" was misleading, perhaps, for Serena's driving had never been as cool-headed as it was in the aftermath of her misstep. She disrespected no turn signals and rolled through no stops. And when Giovanni Manor reappeared through July's thick smog, there was no limping out, dignity dragging, dog-whimpering for his help. There was no neatly squeaking into their valet lot. Instead, the Foreman had parked under the dark leaves of a Valencia orange tree and did not leave her car. Because Mr. LaCroix did not appreciate spectacles, she created none, said nothing; no guardsmen patrolled this far garden, and did not see her to approach. It was hardly comforting in light of a dead boy floating in a pool. The Childe spoke to no one, but she felt trouble coming, surely as it had upon that pier. She would not risk a bad entrance. This could not be quick-fixed; these shred marks couldn't be scoured off with steaming water and bar soap in an arcade bathroom, no matter how hard her hands had worked.

So Serena merely stopped. She waited in that unlit passenger car, kneecaps dotted with road-rash and clacking together, until the crowd filtered into warm summer darkness. Not an hour passed before out came Prince LaCroix.

He was easy to spot in his pristine suit. She opened her door, walked to his limousine, and waited with the grim look of corporals who lost their bloodiest fight.

It was not enough time to be persuasive or eloquent. The woman had used that inadequate forty-five minutes to map out what she might say, spin some storybook heroics to appease him. Lying to incensed Ventrue was a poor option; their progeny knew this best, the product of experience and instinct. _'Oh, no. Not whatsoever an option.' _A concise, factual account of what transpired in Santa Monica was her only sensible course of action - it was the safest route, albeit still not very safe at all. He would bristle at a Childe's sloppy dishonesty, wrinkle his nose at the clumsy manipulations of inferior Kindred. At best, attempting to mislead him would be a dim-witted waste of time; at worst, it could kill her. Serena realized that he was quite probably already privy to these events. She'd prepared for the possibility that Mr. LaCroix would tell _her_ what had really happened.

She was somewhat less prepared for the slap in the mouth.

Peeling over a jumble of excuses, stunned into silence, Ms. Woeburne's fingers clung dumbly to her hit chin while Sebastian forked open his car door and coldly pushed them both in. Strange that this insignificant _pop_ caused more duress than bullets bursts only hours ago. She sat staring – struck stupid – at the silver buttons on her Sire's crisp jacket, palm attached to a swollen bottom lip. It was unconscious self-defense. Serena's world condensed to avoid the contemptuous iolite of a Prince glaring at her, a survival mechanism of social species, how wolves offer up their vital organs when threatened by angrier wolves. Two pairs of pricey black shoes faced each other on the limousine carpet. Her bangs were a walnut drape blinding out distractions as she gummed on words that never formed.

LaCroix glowered at the crippled attempt to make something up. His incompetent gat could take however long she pleased, so far as an unhappy ancestor was concerned; he had _more_ than sufficient disdain stored up to keep scowling. Days, perhaps, if she was so inclined to _sit there_ – thick-tongued – a club-footed toddler in a ragged gown. The insult made his mouth twitch at its precision. Watching her sad surrender, shoulders limp against backseat leather, Sebastian had never been so disappointed with Ms. Woeburne.

Not even that time she failed to pay the Hendon electricity bill.

When her jaw dropped – to speak again, he could only hope – Sebastian intercepted. His discontentment was more powerful than a jittering apology. "Tell me something, Serena," Mr. LaCroix began, turning the question thoughtfully, like one might a pretentious piece of chocolate. The voice that said so was a windless night at sea. "Do you know what it is I find most disturbing about this evening?"

She blinked at him like a fat, slaughterhouse cow.

"It is not that I am surprised. I'm the opposite of surprised; I understood you'd scuttle off to Santa Monica once you smelled your own blood in the air. And I do not fault you for this. It is in your nature to try and control what lesser peoples, lower peoples, might leave to fate. You are Ventrue," Sebastian observed. He rolled his thumb and forefinger together; Ms. Woeburne waited for a strike of flame. "Contingencies were in place had you failed, of course. But I think you ought to know the depths of your role in this venture, unwitting as it has always been. One might say you could even be flattered. Flattered because – despite your limitations, which lately are _severe_ – I thought you'd be a viable excuse for these hysterics. And seeing you haven't been killed - which would have suited my planning just fine – I can only assume you were. So."

_So_ - it's a horrible segue, a terrible omen, a very cruel way to make good on a threat.

"Twice I'm right: about you, and about the politics you've tried – so poorly – to play. And! _And_. In spite of your atrocious decision-making, all these failures you've brought back, my stance upon this Domain is grounded. It is impervious. While we're at it – let's not beat around the bush – why not go a step further? Suppose we might say your incompetence has helped our cause – all these fumblings, all these errors in judgment that I knew you'd make. I knew you'd end up here from that first foolish step you took off my stoop. Appreciate that. Appreciate that, in the face of everything you've done against what you _thought_ was my intention, we are still victorious. The Anarch threat is downsized, I have you as my scapegoat, and Baron Abrams owes us gratitude for sparing the life of his toy soldier against a hotter-hated enemy. Look at the strides we've made. In light of that, it's not unreasonable, I'd say, to expect thanks for your efforts. I should be happy. And yet I am _not_ happy. Do you know why?"

"This isn't something I did willingly! You saw the reports. I gave everything to you. You didn't leave me any choi-" He smacked her again. Serena did not bother touching it this time. She leant swiftly back into the chair, lead-tongued, nerves stinging wildly up and down either cheek.

Sebastian snorted so fiercely he almost laughed; it was a livid, snarling sound. His look was one soldiers wore to scrape dirt from the treads of their boots. "Do not spittle out your excuses while I am speaking, child, or you can trudge home in the sunlight."

Ms. Woeburne disarmed, body tightening into itself. Her head turned aside to clear a blow she expected that didn't come.

Mr. LaCroix crossed his arms. The chest beneath was narrow, but in his eyes, a precipitous Turkish blue, the contempt - and the _rightness_ - were large. "It baffles me, really," he mused, "that some greenhorn pocket of your mind still thinks it can operate alone. You are my _Childe_, you straw-man of a girl; perhaps your new station has duped you into forgetting that. Stow your need for praise and remember. I brought you into this life. _I_ supplied the mercy that contracts your heart. Yet you tip-toe around me? And even when there are legitimate holdings at stake - _my_ holdings - you do it, anyway; not for ambition, but because you are so terribly desperate for pats on the head. Hah! You did exactly as I anticipated you would. Dull little stone. Furthermore, you proved a doubt I've always had about you, Ms. Woeburne – a concern about your development. You are an awfully prideful creature," he observed, fearsome in his disrespect. You could not feel the irony behind such a mordant look, and she was in no position, color blanched, to hate him for it. "You have this dismal need to be extraordinary when you are so terribly opposite. You were chosen _because_ you are not extraordinary. That is your place. Fill it or do not."

She might have said so many things. But she said none.

"If you cut out to make something of yourself one day is not my interest, not now - but nevertheless, you must know: a Ventrue's ambition should be for _more_. We strive for authority, for Domain, for a purpose. You have no concept of what that demands. Yet you'll still button up and risk it for... what?" Another snort; a bristle; a halfway laugh. "Your supposed 'worth' in my eyes? What a _notion_ that is, girl. You are not a dauphin to fret over my favor against blood cousins. You are a corporal," said the Prince. "First you serve."

Serena hurt to refute the attack – to declare, honor dashed, that she'd been 'serving' since her clinical, emotionless Embrace – but being cuffed again would've hurt worse than biting everything back. She was practiced in the smart kind of silence; she knew how to bow her head towards her collarbone and chew on the tip of her punitive tongue. _Awfully prideful creature. _ Ms. Woeburne's nails were digging into the her elbows, unconscious of their bite, another layer of pain. Recompense didn't bear thinking about. Punishment, almost certainly corporal in nature, didn't bear thinking about. _The future_ didn't bear thinking about - not in this moment, when it seemed so dreadfully dark. All three wound the same road: Sebastian would disown her, strip his fledgling of every meager power and precious responsibility she'd gained, or, simpler still, arrange a formal execution. It was inevitable, penance that must be faced. Honestly, then: why bother plotting out a hundred different scenarios for a hundred different situations when every one led there?

Planning was always what Serena did when a problem lay ahead. She could not stomach it tonight. If he killed her, then he killed her, and that would be the end of worrying about anything.

He'd included a job description, however – one tidbit that kept Ms. Woeburne from concluding her egg-timer had just chimed _'done!'_

"I had thought that you, of all people, would have the court exposure to realize our organization won't tolerate your ineptitude. Well, no longer will I," Mr. LaCroix announced as their chauffeur navigated Main Street. Downtown rose around them, rectangular and threatening, a tight-packed maze of concrete that tasted like war. It had been the single longest car ride of Serena's life. She weathered it mutely, compact, unspoken yeses and dim half-nods. "I see now that my flaw in your tutelage has been sparing the rod, hoping you might eventually take something valuable from your blundering. Your performance here has shot that hope to hell. So for you, Ms. Woeburne, I have one last piece of personal advice: do not expect my forgiveness again. In fact, do not 'expect' at all. What you can count upon is that here on out I demand the respect due to a Sire from a Childe. Do I make myself clear?"

She nodded._  
_

"Good. I should like you to figure it out," he dismissed, something that menaced, and terribly stung. You could hear the authoritarian click of his canines. She clung dismally to a missing slice of dress above her ribs. "For now, however, I would like nothing more than for you to go."

For all the ire, for all its unfairness, she was rattled at how badly his rejection burned. Victor de Luca had been an unimaginative, heel-kissing peon – but had he ever disappointed Sebastian so thoroughly? Had he done anything wrong in his measly lackey's life? Had her Sire ever smarted the lad's face with his palm? At that thought, Serena felt a tepid, threatening surge of stickiness well; her vision began to blur. She panicked. _'What? No! For God's sake, not here. Not now,'_ dignity screamed. Cold composure fought valiantly to dam her tear ducts. Every defense threw up its barricades – stiffened nose, clenched fists and bitten tongue, frantic grabs for something to denigrate, something to make this seem not so irreparably bad. _'Oh, Christ! What a disaster!'_ This would earn Sebastian's pity! _This_ would convince him what a worthwhile investment she was!

"You will be sent to Chicago until further notice," he told her. His statement was so jarring, Serena's snuffles retreated, back into the depths from whence improper things like weeping and weakness came. Her compulsion to cry was replaced by the cool deadness that comes with being afraid. This was familiar. This was workable. "There, you will meet with a scholar on my behalf and discuss commissioning his services. I will provide you with the data you need. Is this understood?"

She nodded.

"You will do whatever he asks as though I had asked it, and you will do it well. Is _this_ understood?"

She nodded._  
_

"You will not leave the city unless I am preemptively made aware of it. You will not trouble me to return. When I judge that you have redeemed yourself, I will send someone to fetch you," Mr. LaCroix informed her, frown roasting through a printless passenger window. The word 'fetch' flicked past his incisors with extreme condescension. It hit her ego like a golf swing. "Until that night, do not let me catch a whiff of you in my business. Is THIS understood?"

She meant to nod again – she really did – but the sudden boom of what must be understood made her shrink. It did not matter. Sebastian smelled fear on her much as they could rainwater on the blacktop. He said nothing more to Serena – merely tilted back and looked towards his skyline, lights in an inkspill – the annoyance of her a colorless, genderless static inside something female. The young Ventrue was not about to disturb him. She focused upon her ankles, both of which had been twisted and were swelling. Little discomforts couldn't be felt in the eye of bad storms. Twisted ankles, aching ribs; sore shinbones, tingling hamstrings, kicked caps; crumpled fingers, broken nose; blueblood with teeth in the plum of her throat on an Anarch's basement floor. They were all the same distraction and all the same childish rage.

She had been so diligently considering her injured feet that Serena did not notice when their car stopped. It was Mr. LaCroix's cough that picked up her head to the broad brick home – yes, _home_ – of Empire Hotel.

"Go," he said. Serena did not look up at him. It was "go" only.

_Yes_.

Without looking, without speaking, she unbuckled herself and moved to slide outside – but before Ms. Woeburne could escape, Sebastian caught her. He did not suddenly think of something important. He did not arrestingly grasp her arm. As she placed one foot on that familiar curb, the man seized a fistful of his protégé's black felt collar, yanking her to face him properly. She staggered, half-seated and half-standing, eyes level with a Prince. It was an empire cerulean that punctured the bitter grape-skin of her own. Their noses were inches apart. Both sharp, both scolding, both Ventrue.

Serena could not breathe at all.

"Do not forget. Do not forget whom, and where, you serve again. I could not care less _who _you seem to think you are. Be _what_ you are. You are a Prince's Childe," LaCroix seared. Ms. Woeburne flinched; his threat scathed; she wore raw, chastised cheekbones. "It is high time you start thinking like one."

And he released her, turning crossly away, leaving the Prince's Childe with a plane ticket in one hand and no inkling as to where life went from here.

"And Serena," Sebastian warned, calling after her with all his fingers wrapped around the door handle. "If you disappoint me again, do not bother coming back."

_Slam_.

She watched his limousine squeal off towards Venture Tower, swallowing the urge to scream.

* * *

Lo and behold: here Serena Madison Woeburne was, scheduling midnight meetings from parks, an exile to a city windy in more ways than one.

Her "scholar" was nowhere to be seen, a fact that frayed the vampire's constitution, presently less commendable than usual. He ran late. She might have been content, otherwise – reasonably so, at any rate, because the weather comfortable and her body whole. Add tardiness to a sad inability to work her new telephone, however, and _reasonably content_ unraveled to _tetchy._ As if it was not enough departing California just as her heels began to settle; Mr. LaCroix had also changed his corporal's number, closed every e-mail account she held without notifying Ms. Woeburne in advance, and altered the woman's home IP. This micromanaging was not only irksome, but somewhat odd. It lifted tensions like fine hairs up the back of her neck.

Over these past few weeks, Serena nursed a disturbing suspicion that Sebastian was using her ugly series of indiscretions to his strategical advantage in a new light, a light more long-term than initially thought. They had already discussed the danger of being a very tempting, bloody piece of bait. Perhaps he meant to arm that trap another way - to wrench a bumbling Foreman into some rare, mangled position where Free-State LA might eventually deem her a suitable go-between. _'Or at least forego the instinct to sail a steel toe into my face.' _If their recent uproar in Santa Monica – which included an ambush, a gun-run, emergency field medicine and ridiculous stunts – was any indicator, she must've made progress. So much for that theory, though. This was a blatant communication severance. (Or at least it had been made it _look_ that way. One could never assume they knew the difference between effort and appearance with Ventrue. One would be a fool to try.)

Just as well, really. She had no desire to be dangled out on a meat hook before the Anarch Party.

No, let's be honest with ourselves: she'd probably been stuck on a fishing pole for a while. High past time the lure gets soggy and falls off.

Chicago's hierarchy evidently did not have time for her (which would've raked Sebastian's temper over hot coals), so Serena met briefly with the stooge they'd appointed Seneschal. She'd forgotten his name already. No matter. He was your typical turgid Tremere bastard with more self-esteem beneath his belt than genuine achievements, ego bloated with cantrips and dissertations. Ms. Woeburne politely thanked him for receiving her and promised to operate with good manners and discretion in their politically-charged Domain.

"Politically-charged" was no exaggeration, either. She'd heard disparaging rumors that a bothersome Ravnos limped into the fringes recently, lobbying for her withered clan, finding no allies. It had been causing some trouble for the temporarily leaderless city seat. Modern history aside, few loyalists were diehard fans of lie-spinning charlatans; tribal fractures, poor decisions and petty, periodic surges throughout Europe left a stale taste in most Camarilla mouths. Survivors were sometimes to be pitied, but there was no call to spread your wretchedness around. There was no call to make things that had once been stable unstable again.

At least this district was safe. You know. Relatively.

Interestingly enough, Mr. LaCroix's history expert was also something of a wild card; Ms. Woeburne heard, mostly through rumor, the professor arrived six months ago intending to cure Chicago's Lupine woes. "Professor" in the metaphorical sense, at least. The fusty title was more a sign of respect than a technical rank or an invitation for tutelage, which – as Serena had been made to understand – he offered precious few. Perhaps this was why the local Camarilla saluted him with outstretched arms and what resources they could spare. Meanwhile, _she_ was received by a tidy, over-important prick buttoned up in his best suit, sniffing at her to move along. _'Funny, that.'_ Make no mistake: Foreman were accustomed to stodgy Elders shoving them around, but this one could not help feeling a bit chagrined. She supposed wolves were a suitable excuse for slack hospitality._  
_

And there skulked, as always, Sabbat of various origins. Fanatics did not distress her overmuch; it was not as though they had ever been strangers to Ms. Woeburne's national port of call.

Speaking of call:

Serena spent the next minute fighting with her cellular phone. Never you mind the accidents, apprehensions and anarchy; touch-screens were apparently a corporal's kryptonite. She hung-up once, turned it off, and texted nonsense to Ms. Gutierrez before finally tripping 'answer,' cussing volubly by the time redial followed through.

Freshwater breeze rippled through a starchy black skirt; her informant was nowhere in sight. Moonlight glared off the sheeting of this stark bridge. _Nevertheless_… "My apologies; I must've lost you," the officer squawked, a minor lie, free hand holding onto that brisk safety rail. "This is Ms. Woeburne. Who's calling?"

The blunt reply was not an appropriate answer for her question. It was another city name, in fact – and it was followed by a long, beady-eyed, hair-splitting pause.

Not _this_ again._  
_

Serena's teeth bit down – hard. Acid in her gums, she seriously considered dial toning, and juggled the cellular away to do so, but could not quite commit. A two-minute listen was mandatory. They were separated by miles of mountain and Great Plains. They were not close peoples. They were not a security risk. And they were not, she knew, not wanted – not satiable – not going away. "How did you get this number?"

"_Cam, it wouldn't kill you,"_ the Baron figured; irritation obvious; a rough, impolite sigh, _"to cut me just a little credit."_

Serena's lids lowered their riggings; a Ventrue's cynicism was two short slits, olive each with a pupil punctured in-between. Her fragile humor dropped like a thermostat. She would not be held culpable for this; she would not abide. And yet: "Do you know," she asked, an unfriendly rejoinder, a morbid hunk of bait all her own, "that there is a saying about the Brujah in the East Coast, about what tends to happen in the West? 'Stomp a roach,'" she said – oh, she said – barren and hateful and tragically, broken-glass clear. "Stomp a roach, and ten more will come scuttling out of the ground.' So it might have been vain of me, I think, to suppose we were done with this. Why are you calling? What do you _want_, Rodriguez?"

These are a Patrician's questions: what do you want, why have you done it, what are you going to be?

Perhaps he would have been right to leave it there, but he did not. Nothing wanted is ever as basic, ever as simple as _what_, _why_ and_ from whom_.

_"You sound tense, London. More so than usual, I mean. Where are you?"_ Rodriguez inquired, a touch facetious, but not half as livid as her greeting had been. (Did anyone really handle roach-squashing analogies with a nod and smile?)_ "Board meeting?"_

"I'm… in Chicago, if you can believe it," Serena murmured, a hesitant and slightly flabbergasted admission. She could barely believe, herself; less than two nights ago, there'd been all that blood beneath her fingernails, water steaming in a bathroom sink. The operative stiffened, notice she'd begun to pace down this click-clack runway, and injected a fresh fial of disdain. "As if that's any business of yours whatsoever."

He seemed to ignore her hostility. Normally this surfeit of passive aggression would've narked Ms. Woeburne. Now, however, she was too distracted to burn energy on bigger-man Brujah or what selfish psychological warfares they plied. _"No kidding,"_ the Anarch remarked, more so testing her temper than confirming her claim._ "I know that city a little. Used to be a day _my_ bosses had _me_ doing business up there. Coincidence – if you believe in coincidence. Why Chicago?"_

Her cough was dainty, singular, and insultingly clear. "Not likely, Brujah."_  
_

_"Thought I'd try," _Nines said. His chuckle similarly tried passing for an apology, and it similarly failed._  
_

"Is there a purpose to this conversation?" Serena demanded, deadpan hostility, strict displeasure. There was an uncomfortable bite to the breeze and she wrapped one arm protectively around her stomach. The Foreman could recall the twist of that knife; its purpose was dark work, in her hand or his. There had been so many other offenses and graver wounds since then, but she would never let that first memory of a free State dull. "As I said, I'm busy. And I'm not really in the mood for your tries."

The pause this time was longer; it filled in a blank that need not be written, rules that were tacit, and well-understood.

"_You know," _the Baron observed. _"I appreciate the Ventrue complex you've got going on, but it's not necessary to be a vile bitch _all_ the time."_

"Is that an attitude recommendation?" Snark, short-stop, a cringe at the preposterousness of that notion. She could feel cruelness peel across her face. It was irrepressible; mockery, toothed, outstretched the barriers pretentious children could never hold up. Serena Woeburne's laughter was a contemptible and arrogant sound. "From you? From _I should rip your fucking head off_? From _take the tongue out of your mouth_? _I will kill you right here_...?_" _

"_I was actually calling to thank you."_

Rodriguez gave her five foot-eating seconds of silence before tossing in: _"Doesn't always have to be a fucking episode between you and me."_

Whether the truth of that claim was authentic or merely convenient, Serena was unsure how to react. Confusion stumbled through the antagonism; there was an increase, then a plunge, then a stagger of anger as her faculties debated. She tried to decide if she was being goaded. Hubris could be a pretty liar; ego was a growling, mistrustful beast. "I assume there is no longer a crosshair on my head. What happened to you was not our fault, not our bullet. You have no right to aggress against me; your people cannot-"

_"They won't_. _Whatever I told you, whatever fell in after - you can pretend like it never was. _ _That pier was a nasty scene. I won't speak on the politics. There's no use. And I'm not going say I was wrong about you, because Santa Monica was a moment in time, London; when it comes down to it, I still don't think I am. That's just where I stand. But you came through,"_ the Brujah noted; it was an objective statement, not exactly complimentary, not wholly grudging. She stilled. Her strides stopped. _Thank you_ - it was a foreign, castrating sound. _"You have our gratitude. And I have to give you mine, too."_

Serena was mollified. She could taste the aggression disbanding in her throat as fight instinct fell back towards slack, pacified blankness. "Oh. Well. I suppose you're welcome."

It was what one did when thanked. These words felt stranger than the ones that came before it; they had a peculiar texture, a roughage about them, one that was not entirely pleasant. There was another brief, uncomfortable intermission. _Thank you_ is a troublesome thing. It is like a gift from a disliked friend - something a good corporal does not often receive; should not need; ought not, conscionably, accept.

"Now will you please leave me alone?" the Ventrue insisted, fierce again, eyebrows furrowed behind their glass. "I'm in the middle of something and I do not have time to waste indulging you."

_Click._

Yes. That was much better.

She tucked the phone away just in time to face her objective: leather coat, adventurer's hat, mandarin eyes and sense of skepticism that killed.

"You must be Beckett," Serena said, smiled, and reached out to shake his hand.


	40. Ballistics

**Ballistics **

"Fucker tried to kill me," Nines snapped, shut off his phone, and turned around to the perpetual smirk of Isaac Abrams.

Baron Hollywood sat placidly at one end of a leather couch, gilt stare made of false regrets and somewhat authentic concern. It was not concern for downtown's wellbeing; no bona fide fraternity existed between those tense neighbor districts, two Anarchies that could never combine without breaking everything up. They were resentments and behaviors that wouldn't coalesce. Abrams's concern, as it rightly should have been, was for the seat he held - and any concern for Rodriguez was because soldiers are instrumental to a political cause. Coarse language, coarser demeanor and selfish goals could be tolerated to fill a battlefield with troops that weren't his own.

Theirs was a simple act. The discourse of an older Brujah, a veteran captain, made a protagonist to motivate the younger/stupider ones. Children like that would hardly stop screaming long enough to hear from a Toreador, even a Baron whose Domain still stood. Give them a revolutionary: someone wronged, straight-talking, who talked about grassroots things like brotherhood and resistance and democratic government. That persona had served Rodriguez well many years before Sebastian LaCroix marched into California to make a Camarilla Court from Baron Angeltown's tribe. Suddenly he wasn't a power-player anymore - suddenly his resources dissolved; suddenly he couldn't bully anyone; suddenly he was dead-in-the-water without the backing of a less warlike man. It set the stage for a convenient arrangement: Isaac provided funding, so long as Nines positioned his armies to keep Hollywood clean. A convenient arrangement, and a great performance, too: one last Anarch poster-child rallying the cry while sharks circled.

A risky asset; you had to keep an eye on him. Brujah didn't scheme like Ventrue did, but they could be viciously cunning, and distrusted everyone else. You had to keep his excesses under control. You couldn't let him into your courtroom. But you absolutely could cut provisions and encourage him from afar.

Abrams's job, in the aftermath, was easy. It wasn't difficult to spin a deseated warlord into a recruitment voice for you. He only had to make sure Nines didn't die and he didn't climb back in that seat.

Baron Hollywood was going to survive this faction war, as he'd survived many of them before. Opposition to the Camarilla had always been about personal maneuverability, whether you interests were old biological feuds or more libertarian in nature. Isaac had a distinct advantage in being the latter free-man. Unlike those whose cohorts demanded a crasser kind of humility, this State politician been making his own money and his own strategies for quite some time; he didn't need an advisor. He did not need a partner. What he required was someone with the classless, soldier-winning machismo professional peoples wouldn't tolerate - an unglamorous sort of charisma to seduce troops to the frontlines. Brujah tended to earn ovations in that capacity. If things continued at the rate they had been - if LaCroix kept offending his officers for Rodriguez to keep grabbing them up; if a knocked-out Baron could stay alive - someone else's murmured monologues and five o'clock shadow might win Isaac West California for another decade or more. It was a lot of 'if's. But it was also nothing new - a contrived history play he'd directed countless times during the expanse of his career.

Failing that, they'd buy time for Hollywood, at any rate - at least until an understanding was reached, and a more satisfactory bargain could be made.

"I see that," Abrams noted, because it was good to agree with smaller voices about smaller things, and because you couldn't ignore the bandages seeping beneath Rodriguez's undershirt. It had been a little too close for the both of them. It didn't mean any part of this relationship would rush to change. "Well, he got his just deserts. Maybe the Bible-thumping son-of-a-bitch died. That gives the Society something else to brood over, anyway, apart from burning us down."

Nines's look hardened, squarish mouth thinning. "Not Bach," he grunted, annoyed by a misunderstanding that felt intentional. His eyes narrowed into hateful, chalcedony squints. "Venture. Woeburne. LaCroix. He engineered this whole damn thing – set us up to take a dive on that pier. I know it."

"That could very well be," Isaac acknowledged. He was kicked back against the chenille, gray suit sleeves unpinned, looking languid - and like he might be thinking about something else. "I wouldn't put it past the wind-up charlatan to extend a handshake and deal a sucker-punch. Fits his character. Even so, I can't imagine how you'd be able to prove it."

"I'm not trying to prove it. Hunters? Shit. Since when did hunters need an ulterior motive to start shooting in LA? We'd never get a serious hearing. What's done is done, but you better believe I'm not going to sit down and take it. I'm not going to let them third-party fire at me. I'm not going to tolerate-" An unconscious snarl faltered into a wince. Whatever Nines wasn't going to tolerate had pulled open scab lines, freshly toughened over the laceration that drew his left temple to his hairline. These dramatic amber lights of Abrams Jewelry's private office were uncomfortable; his sight joined the general sting of a slowly regenerating body. Most of the superficial scrapes had knit themselves together. The shrapnel holes, however - the deep, gory dents speckling his lower back - were still very present. Shallower, now, and less frightening, but impossible to forget. They hurt – throbbed a deep and constant ache through the surrounding abdomen. Phosphoric cauterization did its job stunting a normal healing process. Occasionally Nines might stretch the wrong way, and fresh blood would ooze through two sheets of dressing and stain his clothes. Itched like hell, too. Mid-mornings were when they aggravated him most; he'd never been a stomach-sleeper, and would drowsily turn over, jolting awake, cussing his voice hoarse.

Nice to have the advantage of being irritated, though. Leaking, malingering potholes beat "dead" any day of the week.

And you can imagine how Damsel handled the whole ordeal.

Doughie had been a borderline member of their organization, support rather than central, and was missed mostly as an addendum. The Den Mother got more upset than Rodriguez expected over Skelter's death, though. Losing his officer was a personal insult and a boot to the guts; he put knuckles through his drywall in the solitude of that dingy apartment, a private blow, one of those pointless swings you had to take. The _snap_ of cement only flared more anger because Nines immediately realized he'd have to plaster over his crumbling fist-print. Stupid thing to do. Apparently red blood still ran beneath the reek of Jyhad coup.

You could argue the informalities of it: how much control they shared versus how much they delegated; whether or not this was a relationship of mutual benefits; if rebel leadership was really the misnomer downtown's headman claimed. Those questions all had their place and time. The facts stood: with their ranks deteriorating, Los Angeles's Anarchs could spare little time for depression. Nines Rodriguez would remember Skelter for a while; he'd glance to the empty spot beside a worn-down door and get mad about the waste. Waste of potential, a warrior, a good man with that terrible scowl. But that was the best Baron LA could offer. You couldn't dwell on losses, because there would always be more; casualties blurred together into a handful of faces, one for each type of sacrifice made: unlucky bastard, loyal guards, downed soldier, _poor kid_. Poor kid. There had been a dozen loyal guards and maybe a hundred downed soldiers since the last king was kicked off his hill – Skelter managed both – yet somehow, they were all poor kids.

The Last Round grieved in lead bouquets and body-bags. It fit them, and it was the only way they had to recover.

Well, save for Jack, whose sage eulogy went something like: _"Saw that coming. Patriot shot down in the dirt like a big dirty goddamn patriot; saw it coming a million miles away. There's your war glory for you, buddy-boy. Soldiers get killed. You think we invented that?"_ He'd sighed a puff of cigar smoke, had only a headshake and something that smacked of satire. _ "Ah, well. Black guy always dies." _ Genuine enough sentiment for him. Made Nines stare across the den with scorn turning his blank eyes white. Mockery in mid-hour mourning – a jab at the Baron – trivializing this outfit, its officers, direction and aims. Three more reminders of why he couldn't fucking stand Smiling Jack. And a worse fourth reminder of how there was nothing to do about it but loathe quietly and glare.

Christie had been a champ, at least. Not only had she offered to stay put until their current – Rodriguez just called it a "situation" – solidified into something respectable, but after Jack's told-you-so and another set of bandages, quietly asked if her Childe was needed here. After losing two other fledglings from Victor de Luca's so-called Masquerade purge, it was a humbling offer. Nines said no, though, because accepting would've been in bad taste; he knew her own Den Mother's raggedy camp outside Kuei-jin San Francisco was in sorrier shape than his own. Still, that pragmatist streak was commendable. Nines made it a point to remember, liking her better. Good fighter. Good woman. She and Deacon had hopped a northbound train roundabout four hours ago. In the wake of what happened, he was sorry to see a couple more goddamn patriots go.

"You're probably right," Abrams conceded, a tone more appropriate for football games than assassination attempts. Isaac was a laissez-faire man; his orders carried orchestrated, confident nonchalance. It left a strange haze around him, a sense of languidness and ego, as though he walked through afterlife wine-drunk. "Unfortunately for your conspiracy theories, I already spoke to the Prince's people. They were very apologetic. Almost offensively so. Asked if we wanted to reschedule - can you believe that lip?" The way the Brujah's pupils tightened communicated his answer. Isaac folded both arms, frown somewhere between amusement and sleep deprivation. "The young lady I spoke to was extremely complimentary. Left half her resume – can't recall who, at the moment – something that began with a 'G,' I think. She asked to relay the Camarilla's condolences and embarrassment to you directly. LaCroix hires some cheeky broads, I'll give him that. I took the liberty of telling her 'buzz off' for you." Another lazy, sidetracked exhale. Rodriguez generally did his best to tune out a sizeable chunk of whatever Hollywood's great director said. "His alibi for the twenty-sixth, however, is concrete, and that complicates things. As were those rescue efforts. Speaking of," the Baron remembered. He tossed a mildly curious glance at his colleague's pocketed phone. "What did Miss… what was the name? W-something, isn't it?"

Nines didn't bother correcting him. Isaac 'forgot' the names of most women younger than he was. "She's in Chicago. I don't know why."

"You didn't ask?"

"She hung-up on me," the Brujah snorted. Abrams gazed off somewhere past his left shoulder and into distracted space.

"Bright kid. As I said, the Prince likes his gofers kitted out with more moxie than brains. Hence the high turnover rate – all that fledgling blood keeps their company wagon greased and moving. Do you think she knows?" he pondered.

"Most definitely. She knows, all right," Rodriguez insisted, dark brows rising towards black hair. He paced across the marbled floor to face a staff exit, arms crossed, away from lackadaisical Baron Hollywood. Stained windows looked back through diamonds of sickening orange and moss green. Still easier to stomach than gold, grandfather privilege and gray fade. They had slipped so far. "LaCroix hoped he'd rub me out from a distance, cowardly shit. In case that failed, he sent his tool to bail my ass - more to cover his if this ever came to court, which it won't. That's exactly what happened. You can write it down. Now, I don't know if Woeburne was aware of where the hell she stood throughout this mess. My guess is probably not." It was truth. London touted some fortitude for a blueblood, but he didn't think she was cool-headed enough to maintain her smart mouth under the full weight of Camarilla plots. High-profile clearance for a pawn… "But that woman's not stupid. A superior bitch with her head halfway up her ass, maybe, but not stupid. She had to suspect something was off. She had to know her boss didn't have good intentions."

"Well, what do you intend to do about it? We can ill-afford another Society debacle," the Toreador fat-cat observed, "with your forces discouraged as it is. I told the Prince his meeting would have to wait until both parties regrouped. Offered us extra operatives. Bah! Apologizing was shameful, but this? Outrageous." Isaac shook his head. "It's old news, at any rate. Bach's cronies had been pressing their thumb into Hollywood long before the incident in Santa Monica; I'm not sure if you knew…"

"I knew," Downtown spat, hackles bristling, affronted by the presumption.

"Then you also know what a delicate position this puts me in. I can't approve counterattacks; my Childer are already in danger enough as it is. Understand this."

"Understand it?" the Brujah asked, a disbelief he already had the answer two, feeling the rumble through stomach, muscle, throat. His rear teeth clenched. It was typical. The predictability of house-pet Capes like Abrams didn't mean a flimsy excuse like 'typical' cooled Nines's temper, however, and that smirk made it so much worse. "I _understand_ it. I understand I've got two dead men on my hands and a shrapnel bomb in my back. You're about to stand in front of those people, spin speeches about 'sacrifices' and expect me to go along with it, but we all understand that. And downtown will remember it," LA's Baron barked. Three burned-up brigadiers, everybody's fault, all blows to a facade of strength Angeltown couldn't lose: _Preacher, Doughie, Skelter._ Three bodies gone in the span of a few deadly, dynamite months. "My people choke on their own blood so yours can hide in a goddamn theatre house."

"Consider our options," Isaac suggested. The relaxed way he said it made Rodriguez want to hit right on the break of that cleft. But splintering bones would only ease his temperature; it would not change these tides. "I'm truly sorry to hear about the untimely deaths of your officers, Nines. Very sorry. I know that a comrade of yours was among them. But this resistance belongs to the whole of Los Angeles, and as men in our position know, a cause needs revenue to keep on its feet. You also know how few bank accounts can compete with Sebastian LaCroix's. I consider it fortunate – for the both of us – that we are able to help you with that." A smug, smug, curdling grin; Nines could blink and see one blow cripple those teeth in the dark of his eyelids. "I'm happy to finance your arsenal. You know that by now, I'm sure. We wouldn't serve you well in any other way. On that subject, my financial advisers tell me you are now receiving eleven percent off Velvet's monthly profit; that's without any additional donations from this office. You're spearheading this effort. I'll be the first to say so. But, while my forces aren't fighters, your success – with every respect – depends upon our continued functionality. We can't function beneath Grünfeld Bach's rifle sights."

"So I have to."

"Well… yes, if it comes to that," the Baron admitted, sinewy shoulders shrugging. He tossed one bent leg over its neighbor knee. "Don't worry, Nines. I wouldn't leave you to roast out in the fire. So I'll be sending a few bodyguards to replenish your ranks. But I know well enough what you've come to ask me, and much as I would like to endorse everything my allies put forward, I've got to say no. The Prince's doctrines are clear. In the interest of preserving even a… a… this kangaroo semblance of ceasefire between our State and the Camarilla, I cannot support your petition. Not about this. If the Brujah start repopulating now, directly after a ban, I don't know about it, and I won't defend you. This isn't meant to disparage your management - not personally. But your people's discretion is questionable, their decisions have been risky, and it isn't exactly a comfort to see that jen of a Den Mother you've got."

Abrams's goals in this revolution were impure – and Nine supposed his own weren't golden, either – but the sly Toreador kingpin needed Mr. Rodriguez. Mr. Rodriguez was perfectly aware of this fact. Their relationship was one based off self-serving motions and grudging, patient resent. The elder provided economic means while the younger provided guerilla manpower. So they leant upon one another in a mutineer's hierarchy; but all things considered, Isaac didn't really give two cents about Nines.

Funny.

Nines _hated_ Isaac.

Nines hated Isaac Abrams almost as much, in fact, as he hated Los Angeles's murderous Prince. Craven Cape sons-of-bitches couldn't be expected to stick a goddamn toe outside their safety nets. Once they smacked Los Angeles out of Ventrue hands, the Brujah fully anticipated 'Baron' Hollywood would snatch every square inch for his own dynasty fraud – or sell him out for a convenient settlement with their Camarilla neighbors. Hell if Rodriguez was going to let that happen. He'd bled too many pints for some Toreador honcho to decommission him from a leadership role. The only solution was to bide his time – wait for LaCroix's demise and an opportune moment – then wipe Isaac's twisted grin off the face of this city. He would not white-flag his Domain for a haggard old bastard counting bills in a gallery. He would not.

"Keep your can-carriers," Nines muttered; contempt wrinkled the bridge of his nose. "They'd just get in my way."

Abrams sighed. He fisted a hand and used his knuckles as a pillow, elbow propped on the sofa arm. "If that's really how you want to leave it. Let's talk about buckling down on our security plans, then. By the look of the clock, I suppose I'll have to forward this to my Childer…"

But his grievances were interrupted by a crack in the mahogany door. Velvet Velour walked through.

Isaac's decadent charity-case was modest tonight. She slunk through the threshold of their small Pentagon with her eyes to herself, cloaked neck-to-floor in black coat. It was puritanical behavior for VV; maybe a product of the cool summer rain, maybe the threat of Inquisitors nearby, armed with electrical slugs and napalm bullets. But it was rare to glimpse Velour without thinking she'd fallen of a teddy spread. Rare to see Velour in lower-body clothing of any form, really, but she somehow looked only marginally less flaunting for it. Her cotton-candy spiral of hair clung to shallow cheekbones in the humidity; pale skin looked sallow beneath airbrushing, rouge, anxiety. The trench's silver clasps winked vertically down her front. She smelled powerfully of rosewater, powder, caramel, all things artificial; the combined aura of pretense and uselessness in this room worsened Rodriguez's already foul mood.

"Sorry I'm late," Velvet lisped, features drawn, a catwalk gate. Baron Hollywood welcomed her with an annoyed wave of his hand. Pardoned, she turned her attention on their guest, blasé expression twisting into concern. _'Good little actress, Velour.' _Her eyebrows dented; the pursed, fuchsia mouth turned downwards._ 'Good actress, but bad judge of character.'_ Toreador should know better. Presence was not an exclusive thing. "I heard you were shot, Nines," she said, colorless eyes flicking over him - trying to be worried, looking critical. "Are you all right?"

A millisecond glance and curt "fine" was the Anarch's only response. His ringed fingers pressed tightly around captured thumbs. He hadn't given them the details of that fight, and had not said anything of the humbling way he'd survived.

"Where's Ash?" Abrams asked the exit. No one else came through; you could see a Sire's feather-light hope fall to confusion, frustration, then disappointment. "I thought I told you to round him up before you met with us tonight."

VV shook her head. Nails, snap-dragon pink, folded neatly over the Toreador's naval. She sighed in a way that her surrogate had heard a thousand times before. "I'm sorry, Isaac. He wouldn't come."

The Baron somehow did not seem surprised. Laugh-lines deepened angrily. Like any minor lord, this one did not take kindly to being embarrassed before his peers. "Unbelievable. Our wellbeing and precincts at hand, and you mean to tell me that boy remains too wrapped up in ancient grudges for a half-hour meeting on safety protocol?"

"You know how he is," the woman answered helplessly, shrugging, mezzo-soprano a rueful note. She returned to Nines. "But you oughtn't to be standing. Please, sit," Velour bid him gently. She clipped across her patron's office to direct Rodriguez to a chair, but there was little warmth about her invitation, and no heat in the tips of fingers acting hard to be more alive. "You must be in pain."

Nines yanked his arm from the gesture, met false empathy with a bark. "Don't pull that shit on me, Velvet. You're not my friend."

She blinked at him, put-out by the failed persuasion attempt, and took a seat beside her patriarch. VV thought she was everybody's Lady Love. Whether or not that was true depended - but what did not change, and did not "depend," was that a big animal growls when he is in the most pain.

Isaac observed their brief scrape with a stale, unamused breath. "You see what I've been dealing with all evening?" Abrams asked. The Brujah knew he was being belittled. He swallowed his hurt and his hiss.

"I don't got time for this," Rodriguez rumbled. It felt like ants biting the wounds in his back. "If you're honestly looking to make good on that promise of doing something worthwhile for me, contact your sewer-rats and figure out what Woeburne's doing in Chicago. I want to know about it. Otherwise, keep your people collared in Hollywood." Velour hid her singed ego behind a glitter of conflict-resolution; the tinted face was a slate of dispassion, unreadable, and utterly closed.

"I wish you'd calm down, Ni-"

"I wish you'd shut up, Velvet," the Anarch cut back, burr hardened into shotgun flak. She looked at him with wordless displeasure. Isaac said nothing. He watched his recruiter – no patience for hero veneers or sweet-talk here – dismiss the young Toreador and return attentions upon him. "As for the Society: if they become an issue, I'll take care of them. As usual. Because I am apparently the only one who fucking can."

Abrams turned a cheek on this bait. He had the advanced age and experience to forgive Rabble their habitual blown-fuse. Besides, there was no call to bite on toothless, spent fury; he listened absently, propped on one edge of the office couch, drumming on polished pine. Downtown could beat his chest and steam himself red for all Hollywood cared. Anarchs bucked when they saw the chains that shackled them, and though he still spoke like a MacNeil free man, Nines Rodriguez spotted his long ago. Let him rant and fume - if slapping down hollow ultimatums gave a losing Baron some counterfeit sense of control, so much the better for his patron. Allowing him room to yell and drop orders made the man more manageable. Whatever insults flew, whatever riots were implied or guessed, Isaac kicked back comfortably upon the knowledge that a beaten Brujah – for all their hot blood and all their defeats – realized who his betters were.

And so the Toreador was calm when his collaborator about-faced and made to storm out onto an empty street. Real directors did not allow the occasional Kindred temper-tantrum to upset them. Real Barons saw beyond.

"One last thing, Nines, before you go," Abrams noted. He did not rise. He directed the polite aside to a back full of nail holes and charred flesh. "I have never been a sticker for protocol among my friends, but let me remind you where you're standing. This _is_ my Barony. So please - speak freely. I encourage it. But as long as it remains my Barony, I ask that you address me with the respect a Baron deserves."

Rodriguez's look was odious blue moonstone. "Address me with an army or get out of my way."

Watching the door hinges swing, Isaac had a nagging suspicion that boy was going to try and kill him someday.

But not tonight.


	41. The Jungle

**The Jungle**

"You must be Beckett," she'd said, the face of her right palm amicably up, and Ms. Woeburne was terribly relieved when he shook it.

Serena had no real reason to assume Beckett would be an insufferable, pompous academic flying high on aged blood and ivory tower prestige. Prior to tonight, Hendon's displaced bailiff hadn't enjoyed much contact with Kindred historians (especially not of his infamous caliber). She frankly did not dwell on the nature of their condition as much any responsible vampire ought; ancillae usually juggled concerns more pertinent to their survival than digging up its origins. True, "I'm busy" is rarely an acceptable excuse for ignorance. Compared to – oh, say, an up-and-coming Tremere – her supernatural understanding was almost embarrassing. Whatever appeal scholarly pursuits one held over the Ventrue had been smothered, however, beneath decades of work at Sebastian LaCroix's beck. When one forks their way through five dozens deadlines for a demon in a charcoal Kiton, the deep-seated question of "where did I come from?" rings a little superfluous, and more than a little stupid.

So, being as low-brow as she was about the Darwinian theories of vampirism, perhaps it was prejudice imagining some intolerant old stick-in-the-mud still wearing his graduation hood. Could you blame card-carrying members of a clan nicknamed _Scepters_ for typecasting? Occult erudition was a cocaine among the tome-buried blood-witches who considered themselves their betters – and from what little she'd read of this man before tracking him down, he'd acquired enough artifacts to green most mages. It was an impressive résumé. Still, her lackluster experience with Dr. Wilhelm was still fresh. She hoped this Beckett would not turn out to be a greasy, dust-laden, perverted sot categorizing his Encyclopedia Britannicas by monocle-lens and flickering candlelight.

Ms. Woeburne was simultaneously relieved and thrown-off to discover the Gangrel standing before her was not, in fact, lacking hygiene, social etiquette or depth perception. Quite the opposite, actually, and this fact served another dose of surprise. Mr. LaCroix played a sizeable role in developing his corporal's bias against their bestial clan; he often made grumbled remarks about _"dogs licking their haunches"_ and _"whipped, shedding curs."_ (Serena had once heard him call Rozalin Greene a _"mangy Pomeranian_._"_) Clan superiority from a Ventrue was to be expected, but knowing this didn't prevent her from soaking up his bad influence like a crisp yellow sponge. To be brutally honest, the Foreman was almost dreading this so-called expert might introduce himself by trotting up and licking the salt off her outstretched palm.

Fortunately, he didn't seem altogether interested in tumping over garbage bins or digging holes in the lakeshore sand. It probably would have mussed up his hair, a listless, gossamer black. The hat overhead boxed a Victorian face in geometrics; leather brim, blunt chin, hollow cheeks. _Looming_ was probably a more accurate descriptor than standing. He wasn't physically intimidating – upright and thin, posture a bit sloppy. All in all, it was a strange cobble of off-color smarm and social recluse that flew her to Chicago – ballpoint pen tucked into the band of his akubra, well-worn adventurer's coat over gaunt shoulders – a loitering, sinister scrutiny that accompanied intelligence. Shallow reading lines cut open triangles around his temples. A slim mouth curled over reflective teeth. Two pupils slit in tangerine eyes were the sole wolfish quality about him – manticore eyes, slim and half-full, peering over sunglasses.

"_You must be Beckett"_ had really been the only thing to say.

"I must be," he granted her, sounding somewhat disenchanted with this particular fact. His accent was odd, lisping and petulant. He dipped the dig-site hat. "And that must make you Sebastian's girl."

When the historian shook her hand, Serena felt it prickle – colder – and realized she might be facing a small, discomfiting problem.

Serena thought Beckett was attractive.

"Yes, that's me," she admitted, flashing an unexcited, grimacing grin. Perhaps there had been a primary school crush on some forgotten neighborhood librarian or perhaps the Foreman had a penchant for elitists apt to treat her poorly, but the sudden recognition of _being_ attracted jarred her. Ms. Woeburne was not aware she could still be attracted. Not by something with no practical appeal; he didn't radiate the authoritarianism of Ventrue Disciplines, Toreador beauty or the menace of Presence's Brujah variant. He was not really altogether pretty or masculine. Oh contraire, the professor looked a little epicene – walk skulking, stance not as strong as it could be. Call it a matter of taste, she supposed, one that sat dormant beneath a hundred other things to do. No need to justify. And, to tell true, she'd rather not. It was a pointless detail. It was the making straight-laced officer uncomfortable, actually. She was not fond of inane distractions and soldiered ahead to the next item. "I hope I'm not too early. This is my first time in Chicago. And I'd have never forgiven myself if I'd kept you waiting."

"Actually, I think I'm late," he drawled. There was no sign of a watch on either wrist, and it was doubtful Beckett would've checked it, anyway.

She blinked through what might have become a frown.

Ms. Woeburne had prepared a short and heel-kissing introductory speech during the plane trip. One's ability to lick clientele shoes clean with a grateful smile was valuable for any Camarilla operative. Still, the chipper cast of her negotiation face tasted more and more like lemon rind lately. "It's all right. On behalf of us both – my Sire and myself – thank you for agreeing to meet here. We are honored you took the time out of your hectic schedule to consult with us. Los Angeles won't forget your courtesy."

The distinguished old Gangrel seemed somewhat tired with it all. He readjusted his cap and swept out an arm, shooing Serena along down the metal pedestrian bridge. "Don't flatter yourselves too much. Your proposition was actually the most interesting one I had this evening." There was a cavalier lethargy to his offhand manner of speech that smacked of Elder status.

"Well," Serena said briskly, following his lead back down the walkway, back toward the way she just came. This direction annoyed her. Her shoes clicked plating, pavement, and pushed forward for that spot of park district green. "Either way, I apologize for distracting you from your investigation. The Seneschal tells me you're currently solving Chicago's Lupine problem."

Beckett's thick eyebrows lifted, amused. "Am I? That's what _they'd_ love to believe. To be frank with you: as far as I am concerned, Decker can have his happy, mordant way with the Midwest Lupines. I'm actually here rendezvousing with some dear old friends of mine." The man adjusted his glasses. He had a slow, ambling stride with no predatory under-lurch, hands clasped loosely behind a long back. Something that must've been a bird shook through the hawthorn branches overhead. "In the interest of time, let's make this first conversation short-and-sweet. I'm sure a burgeoning diplomat like yourself can understand," he remarked. And wasn't that the truth. "Do you have the curiosity in question, young one?"

Sebastian's Childe looked derailed by this inquiry. Her head cocked, spaniel-like. It made tiny earrings, one pearl in each lobe, blink. "Not on my person, of course. I'm sorry – did a Ms. Gutierrez forward the briefing to you earlier this week?"

"I'm afraid not," Beckett sighed. He had a lazy dialect – amiable, unpartisan and bizarrely pouting. "If I'd had known to expect more information so quickly, I would've delayed this meeting, possibly saved you the trip. Pity. Nevertheless, what little your master passed along has piqued my ear, so all is not lost." The Gangrel sent a single, curious nod towards her portfolio bag; it banged steadily against Serena's left hip. She stopped sharp and fumbled for spit-shined buckles. "Don't rush on my behalf. Contrary to the rumor-mill, I don't dull quite as easily as some of my more unflattering admirers might suggest."

"It's no trouble. I've brought along extra copies," she informed him. Beckett made a patronizing, eureka _"ah!"_ and a following _"of course you did" _to express his appreciation. Or to scoff 'predictable corporate lackey,' but Serena didn't allow outgroup criticisms to bother her overmuch; business was priority, as was Camarilla praise. The woman rooted through her labeled file holders, fingers flicking printer paper. It was an action with some irritation attached, but she was sure these damn documents were inside; Ms. Woeburne had quadruple-checked in the boarding line. She'd even tagged them with citrus orange stickers. It was a sickeningly Ventrue thing to do. "If you'll give me just a moment…"

"Oh, please, take your time." She could sense his impatience upon her hunting hands. The pamphlets emerged soon enough, however, neat and clipped shut just as they had been in Los Angeles. 'Classified' was emblazoned boldly beneath the intimidating blue LACROIX FOUNDATION stamp. Serena extended them with an upbeat smile, and Beckett looked about as skeptical as a parent with a late report card.

"Excellent," he observed, opened, and indulged with the scouring eyes of a speed-reader. Ms. Woeburne awkwardly stood by. She'd exchanged a hefty check for this packet some time ago in Café Cavoletti; it seemed lackluster, mundane, too thin for its bill. Mira had waltzed away with her new title like a Jyhad bandit, Bruno ousted and a committee seat secure. But where did Sebastian's interests come into play? It wasn't terribly unusual of LaCroix to burn exorbitant sums for the sake of prestige; he was an a unsentimental but very impression-aware politician, and bragging rights carried more sway over him than he'd admit. Yet to pave an alliance with morbid clan Giovanni, and over _what_? Some finely-chiseled limestone that had likely been pillaged by tomb-raiders centuries ago. Splendid craftsmanship, to be sure, but still fundamentally a dead-box. This sounded suspiciously like mania on her Sire's behalf; perhaps Mr. LaCroix's eccentricities were beginning to worm their way through his bank account in earnest.

Maybe five minutes later – just when she felt extraneous enough to dare an "excuse me" – the Gangrel cut in with one quiet, fascinated cough. His hat brim arced shadows across satellite photographs, manilla, and the hands that held them. They were incongruently heavy for a very careful man. "These look to be Assyrian hieroglyphs. Interesting. Very interesting, actually. You brought me more than pictures, I hope." Serena handed over the CD case already in her grip. "Excellent" again. "Consider me involved. Tentatively, mind you. Either way, I'm looking forward to having a gander at these."

Ms. Woeburne - who doubted the legitimacy of that dusty piece almost as much as she doubted herself - stared at him, taking a moment to be sure Beckett wasn't being facetious. He didn't seem like it. She had little choice, then, but to accept that perhaps appearances were deceiving in regards to crumbling caskets, ceasefires, and explorers whose knuckles were less delicate than their faces looked.

"I'm glad to hear that, Professor," the Ventrue confessed. Beckett didn't love the title. She saw his eyebrow jump too late to self-correct, and smoothed a palm heel over her crown, flattening stray brunette. It was a pitiable nervous habit - something for her wrists to do, nerves tightening, their prelude to quakes. Serena's fingers balled into a fist when she caught herself at it. "And I am sure my Sire would say the same. The excavation is underway as we speak. Currently, our projections estimate it will be ready for export to the United States within a few months - perhaps as early as October, barring any upsets. We'd love to have your professional opinion at that time. Prince LaCroix offers complimentary lodgings, and any expenses your research itself might accrue will also be paid in full, of course. There's really no one else we'd rather have study the relic."

Relic, indeed. And _this_ was the cardboard-padded secret Sebastian once deemed too 'sensitive' for the eyes of his own Childe?

Prince Los Angeles had Serious Problems.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," the scholar advised, slipping his CDs tidily into a coat pocket and tucking her reports under an arm. Orange sclerae were visible for a moment before disappearing behind the black bulwarks of his glasses. Ms. Woeburne hoped this was an isolated case of admiration and that she wasn't one of those creepy Gangrel fetishists. Beckett was still speaking, despite the wooden expression on his company's face. "Why don't I scurry home and look over what you've given me, and if I find this business is still up to both of our standards… you know. I'll be in touch. Don't go far, young one."

"I won't," the agent promised. She was standing like a minuteman-at-arms. "I'm staying at the Drake Hotel and am planning on visiting Chicago for some time. My contact information is on a post-it in the files I passed you. Oh. And my name is Serena Woeburne." Her introduction was a little late on the delivery, but... well. It's not as though he had specifically asked.

"Very well, child," was all she got reply. You could tell from Beckett's indifferent expression her name had flown in one ear and merrily out the other. Weary of corporate manners and polite negotiations, he'd already started rifling, pulling out the inventory sheets and time slots. "This is the only full report I'm going to find in here, I imagine," the Gangrel asked. She nodded without knowing whether or not it was. "I was afraid of that. One can never mistake the handiwork of clan Giovanni. Of course it's a caricature of an expedition. For all that preoccupation with death, they've never really got it. Just goes to show that luck and money will never be an adequate replacement for actually knowing what one is doing... if you ask my opinion. Which you did."

"Yes, and we're willing to do whatever we can to-"

A sigh. He flickered another moment over the three top pages. He didn't want to hear it anymore from her. "Sad. I wonder if they have any idea _what_ it is they're digging up." A second, slightly louder sigh. "Give me an evening or two to make sense of these no doubt bumbling notes. When I unearth something conclusive – if I do – I'll give you a ring. Until then, I believe this falls into the 'don't call us; we'll call you' category."

"Understood," Serena replied, mostly unoffended. She was used to the ego and the arrogance. When one catered to Sebastian LaCroix on a nightly basis, they grew awfully thick skin. "In the event my employers pass on more pertinent information, I'll prepare it for you ASAP. You're welcome to check in with me at any time for updates. Also, if you have further questions between now and then, I'll be available." (_That_ was almost dangerously true. Ms. Woeburne really had no idea what she ought to be doing in Chicago – apart from jumping through fiery circus hoops to earn and maintain Beckett's exclusive interest, that is. She thought the Prince would've endorsed his Childe taking up naked, blindfolded, one-armed knife-juggling, should that prevent their known world's foremost lore expert from boring of their cause. It was disturbing to think this matter might already be out of her hands.)

Ah, well. If decades of watching Sebastian delegate had been of any benefit to her people-judging skills, Serena suspected they'd already battened down this scholar's attention. He acted awfully nonplussed, but she wasn't fooled. His aloof demeanor felt unpleasant, but it was likely meant to toy with a stereotype he didn't care for - to thwart the Ventrue tendency to résumé-build. An irritating proposal. But it was also a typical one, a fairly harmless one, and almost chuckle-worthy. _Hah. _As if One-Track Woeburne needed any external help jeopardizing her position.

Stress aside, humor aside - the fact this was at least half an exile aside - she shook the good professor's hand and about-faced for a taxi cab, neither staring after, neither bothering to wave goodbye.

And that put her business on pause.

Serena turned into the shadow of a new downtown. Skyscrapers crowded around her with broad shoulders. Across the frantic avenue, a wash of light, restaurant patios and pricey storefronts gazed back. Pedestrians in office wear nudged between party-goers; tourists lost their wallets to fast fingers; some young kine drank while Kindred hunted stupid ones. And all of them ignored the occasional drifter crouched beneath these hanging signs, iron awnings, a strange wire tangle over the streets. It was hot. Locust trees wore red mulch in late summer, starting to brown. Elevated tracks rattled overhead, wrenching through a hundred sharp buildings. Ten thousand tiny windows glistened back. Voices shouted: Korean, Spanish, Polish, Italian, English as steelworks and slaughterhouses still stunk beneath sidewalk soil. Park grass glistened behind her. Someone played a saxophone nearby. You could smell the great lake from here – chemical and phosphoric. She glanced down the block with nowhere in particular to go.

It was an abnormal state of being for Mr. LaCroix's (usually) subservient protégé. Though agency took precedence over personal feelings, Serena was restless; shuttling to-and-fro for Camarilla enterprises didn't exhaust you as much when it came with fear. She couldn't be still. And perhaps all this excess energy wasn't a bad thing; Ms. Woeburne desperately needed some sort of distraction to keep her fast-wheeling mind from wandering back to Santa Monica Pier. These were the details she didn't want, the flame for bad dreams, the texture of concrete making her elbows sear. Bullet ricochet and chemical smells. Gasoline, burning metal, all of that nearly-black blood- _god_. They all added up to a failure and her ability to fall short, to fall _through_.

These memories were disconcerting enough on their own to leave them lie. But it was the consequences making vague flashes _bite_; fixating led inevitably to the promise that failing here meant Prince LA might not fetch her back. Yes, _'"fetch her"_ – those had been his exact words. She snapped short the thought before her poor stomach could start seizing again.

'_At least our first meeting went well,' _the woman reminded herself in an attempt to be optimistic. One steppingstone at a time. _'Beckett was quite civil.'_

There wasn't much opportunity to worry about whether or not he would ever call, however - not yet, anyway. A cab screeched by and she thrust up her arm. It was reflex, automatic. This city shoved and choked in a way Los Angeles, sweating with smog, had not.

Serena climbed into the leather upholstery with little fuss and said _hold, please _- it was another automatic - so she might study a backseat map. It was hard to pick her new destination. This battery burst of movement seemed like a productive change, at least. Perhaps, Ms. Woeburne dared - perhaps, dolefully busy and staunchly unsmiling - she might actually have enough leisure time to appreciate her surroundings for a change. Maybe she could rest her anxieties and learn what they meant. Maybe she would sort out what had happened and what there was to be done. Maybe, with an angry Sire and a lot of bad luck, she'd even get a little sight-seeing done.

'_Ankaran Sarcophogus. What a crock,'_ Serena scoffed, slammed the car door shut, and settled into Chicago as best she could.


	42. The Book of Judith

**The Book of Judith**

Colton's ear had grown back, but his pride still stung where the skin was soft and new.

King's shoulders were pressed against one foundering wall of Hallowbrook Hotel as they all listened to Marcus rave. It was hard for him pay attention. That was the exception, not the rule, because there'd been a time not long ago when this not-alpha man was the one who heard, smelled, scented everything. He found the danger before it happened. He could be counted upon to notice, predict, see. But it wasn't easy _seeing_ a real alpha through the musk of this old room - not when the cobwebs were thick as they got, not when your arms were all burbling with hate, and not when embarrassment burned blood a terrible purple-black beneath your face.

The Grand Lobby had been a sight once. Colt would've bet money these chandeliers, now eaten green, shined copper when this place hosted live families instead of other ones. Mahogany paneling, spiral staircases with charred cream carpet, champagne wallpaper latticed with delicate, pretentious leaves. That must've been forty years ago. All those tiny leaves were peeling foul brown now - horse glue, cigar smoke, termite cracks in the wood. His ear canal itching from this dust-scale that sunk in. A Ductus with a big mouth and an endlessness behind his big, Brujah, cannibal teeth.

The Gangrel's temper was a slow-boil pot. Marcus kept screaming; Colton, out-of-sight on a staff stair, drew mazes through the fig leaf print with some soot on one fingernail, trying to swallow whatever was making his tongue so thick and so sour. Johnny was probably going to be dragged over the hot coals tonight. There'd been another incident in Compton, five shots traded and two footmen dead; who knew if it'd been anybody's fault, but they all knew that didn't matter. Not a chance. Not one fig leaf worth.

More than shutting-up, listening, obeying, _this_ was the hardest part for a man like King. Injustice popped and licked from that kettle he stewed, a foul, unwashable grease. Sometimes, these nights, Colt remembered how his Pa teased him, how he'd cheered up his boy with the bad-color hair: _mop's going to keep glowing redder the madder you get. _Red in his roots, in his nose when he'd get socked, in the wetness of sheets where they strapped human cattle and thumbed out their eyes. That Irish-mop boy was a little too smart to pick fights he couldn't win by now. After surviving three years of Torres's grand-martial law, you learned to check your injustice and choose your battles wisely. You learned to turn down your flame. You stuck a lid on that pot that you didn't peek under, and you never picked up.

Still, the musty heat of their peeling hostel bore down. Everybody had been kicked a few times in this pack, the right-hand-men and cannon-fodder; people got forgot, nobody ever got forgiven. You'd think it'd feel normal after a while. Maybe that _while_ just hadn't passed yet, but nothing about this became normal, not for Colton King. Watching Marcus bark about failure – watching him whip this stupid, loudmouth kid in the face with a crowbar for choking out something that wasn't "yes" – made his grind his teeth. Torres was so full of his own shit. Their leader's eyes were gold-on-black, pupils ringed by hateful neon; it was a glare that stung, that swarmed, like frenzied hornets. You couldn't let it catch you unaware. There was nowhere in here to shake off a hive.

If he'd been a bit older, Colton swore, when their present Ductus pushed monomacy rites on their last one, he'dve had balls enough to support the latter. It wasn't as if King had been particularly fond of their dethroned leader – never knew him personally, really, beyond the heartbeat pang of Vinculum. But he wouldn't have stood there, at least. He wouldn't have gone to stone in this very same room as Marcus took a fire axe and chopped his predecessor in two, three, four, five, too many pieces to see. He watched a lot, Colt did - watched horrible things, gory things, things made of of brain and intestine and steel - but given another chance, he wouldn't have watched a Brujah diablerize a body with its head hanging off by a bright blue cord.

That coup was sloppy as it was blunt. Recalling it dredged up a raw meat taste, made him flinch like an humiliating memory. Vicious motherfucker did not deserve leadership titles or respect. Marcus didn't deserve - but there wasn't much could be done about that from this slumping stairwell, where King sheltered bad feelings, and where he couldn't see Johnny's nose smashed in, pulled off. _'Not mine. Not tonight'_ had become the Gangrel's mantra. He reached up to paw at his ear wearing almost a sneer. You could just spot, through that shorn-close hair, the veins throbbing on Torres's skull. _ 'Not any time soon.'  
_

The Sabbat Jyhad was simple at street level. There was no hoisting of a young champion to replace stale blood; there was no dissent rising to hurricane day. Marcus had not been the most qualified supplanter; he hadn't bothered giving lip-service to fresh ideas. This heinous, self-important son-of-a-bitch won because he was a Brujah – twenty years superior to most of their withering den – and the fucking neonates swooned around him, high off collarbones, pheromones and sometimes methamphetamine.

As if it really needed saying: Colton hated Marcus's filthy, reeking guts.

"Colt," Inés murmured at his left, a sick, yellowed grin Kershawed on her face. It was an ugly wolf kind of a smile, and it made her bangs, short nutmeg, tickle over briny eyes. She elbowed him in the belly beneath his ribcage. She always looked like she was squinting through a shutter of grass. "Hey. Is it just me, or does Torres look a little _sore_?"

Inés Herrera was King's blood-bound packmate and the closest he had to a friend in this place. She was also kind of a shitty Lasombra, to be honest. The woman had been Embraced a couple years before he had, some dead Sire's accident, and spent that time wandering rural California. Caitiff only had one or two options if they wanted to civilize. The best pick was obvious - it was Johnny who'd recruited her, mostly lost, filtering into Los Angeles one sweltering night during a drought. Absence of water, shriveling green; it fit. Messy coincidence: she'd smacked him with the fender of her car, jumped out to fight, and been initiated on-spot. Bleeding rites patched up what stitches could not. These were the ferocious, frightening loyalty-ties that kept this sect afloat; hell, much King loathed Torres, he'd have laid down his life to prevent any one brother from burning down. Shouldn't have been any sort of surprise, then - how Colton was blown-away by the immediacy and intensity of affection between himself and his sister. That pitch texture - those dark eyes, the color of rotting hazel - were as familiar to him as any cousin had been in life.

Funny – King had been a despicable racist of the _Good Ol' Boy_ variety in life. Now hometown values had been shoved out of contention by tousled hair, soft-shell jackets and lanky joints.

The Gangrel squinted and scraped at his stubble, a rust itch, as their Ductus smashed Potence into some whelp's cheekbone. "What're you getting at, Neske?"

"Look at him," she urged. _Psst, psst_; that's all it was from Inés most nights, taps on the toe and a finger gouging, something from fifth grade. She'd kick the heels of their boots together to get his attention. Her whisper, like the woman's speaking voice, was a brookish contralto with a smile attached. It never straightened out or sobered up - not even as they watched spit and molars fly. "Watch his left knee. Give him three steps and it'll limp. He's trying to hide it, but Marcus was always shit at dealing with pain. Bishop must've really fucked the shit out of him this time." There was a note of pleasure to the thought.

"So he's hobbling a little," Colton brushed off. He said it too fast, too irritably, and was ashamed by the deep twang of South. Torres vented odium to mask the aches behind that vicious, bony face. Served the bastard right, getting hammered by a Bishop, but it didn't make King's stripped-off lobe hurt less. "You think that's rough shape? Should'a seen me, few weeks back. I thought my face was going to come off."

"Yeah, I heard you got it pretty bad. But you know that pain filters down a long chain before it ever hits us lowlifes, Colt. Big boss was stark raving after the coast warehouse went up, and I don't think he ever got over it. Rub that into the general shit-job Marcus has been making of security lately? Jesus. We didn't even _know_ about the Pier before it blew. You realize what that says to HQ about the local management? He's lucky not to be soot in somebody's feather-duster at this point. You got your licks, I know, but nobody bites like Bishop. Not even him." The analysis made sense. Still, he didn't appreciate the dismissal of what Marcus had done to him, as though leaking eardrums didn't figure into the genuine business of being Sabbat.

A gruff snort announced King's skepticism; it puffed shaggy auburn bangs from his forehead. "And what?" he wanted to know. "That's the price he pays for getting where he is. Nobody forced that on him. Nobody pushed him into being what he is, who he-"

"_Sst_. Keep your bitching under volume control," Inés reminded, elbowing his lower back. Colton grunted more from the scolding than from the hurt. "I understand you're still pissed about it, but you get me in hot water with Marcus, honey, and I swear I'll rip off your other ear."

"That so?" The Gangrel was just about to ask "_you and what army?"_ when they were stopped short.

Their Ductus had a glare like the head of a spear. His tensions were high, a bonfire of nerves, and Torres whirled on them both with large shoulders racked to his temples. The bleached crew-cut glistened along his scalp in Hallowbrook's limited light. He was something part wrestler, part bear. "If you shovelheads on the stairs don't shut the FUCK up, I will come over there, and I'll tear out every tongue in the house," he screamed - they were empty threats, but King and Herrera shrunk, a reflection of their omega status. Marcus was marginally appeased by the display of submission. His voice wasn't deep – a mean middle-pitch – yet the Brujah compensated, his charisma a medicine of gore and brutality. To keep the pack mindful, to assert his authority, he would occasionally yank the spines from who failed him – stage dripping, putrid public exhibitions. He'd grab a head in his mitt and pull it straight up. Then he'd arc back and throw - you can imagine the disaster that made. They'd scrub walls for weeks and the rancid cow stench never came out. Bad taste, maybe, but pitching innards to the crows usually made its point.

"I've had it up to _here_ with you. All of you - all your constant fucking whining," Torres frothed, the orange planes of his back angular and aggressive beneath a thin white shirt. There was so much blood in here, new and old, so many dead body bits that clung on. You could never know how that cotton stayed so clean. "There is no excuse for this. There's no excuse for being useless and pathetic as the lot of you have been - not since we lost the old warehouse, and not since we pushed here. Santa Monica is our claim. And now I've got to deal with flak from Chicago because you maggots aren't capable of doing your jobs at border control? No way. Shit is going to start running differently around here. We sure aren't about to lose any more territory to some half-dead Anarchs or the motherfucking Ventrue; not Compton, not the shore. I want _real_ patrols – do you understand? – real honest-to-God patrols on beat downtown at all hours." Saliva splattered from his rabid mouth. It scraped the vampire's throat clean, a ragged sound, a serrated edge. "Since this is all obviously so fucking amusing, YOU can take the first shift tonight, King. Inés, round up the third and ship your ass to that pier. I want you there 'til sunup. If you cut short - either one of you pieces-of-shit - heads are going to fly. I don't care whose. I don't care. Are we clear?"

Colton and Herrera didn't exchange any more comments about Marcus's limp or his off-center knee. Their statures slunk compliantly. Their consent came in wordless, careful nods.

Torres was not impressed. He hovered there, bristling, for another few seconds before the end line came: "And so? Don't just stand there gawping at me, couple of fucking retards, fell off the bus. GET MOVING."

Smoke should've lit from the depths of those eyes.

_'Not me. Not mine. Not tonight,'_ the Gangrel told himself. Stairs creaked beneath him as they both stood. Colton couldn't find the courage to steal a goodbye glance at Inés.

"Son-of-a-bitch," he heard the Lasombra mumble before she turned and pattered upstairs for her tactical gear.


	43. Five Finger Fillet

**Five Finger Fillet**

Half-past twelve hit downtown LA, and a Den Mother was trying to look bored.

Damsel sat cross-legged upon a front booth table, chin in her fist, thumbing through text messages that she'd read before. There was an odd sense of loneliness in The Last Round when nobody else was. No alerts buzzing for her attention this evening, which normally would've been suspicious in volatile times – but tonight, it was just stonewalled ambition. Figured their ally's gray ass would pale when it came to push-and-shove against tangible Camarilla policies. She told Nines not to waste his precious time bothering with Hollywood's approval. If it walks like a Cam, she told him - _if it walks like a Cam, talks like a Cam, thinks like a Cam, stinks like a Cam_ - you can probably guess what it is. And even if it wasn't: there'd never been need for a goddamn powwow to predict some Toreador pussy wouldn't endorse real moves against a richer Prince. So, just like she'd said, just like they thought: His Mother Fucking Majesty keeps twisting everybody's balls while the rest of these friendly neighborhood Capes stand shivering in their panties. How anyone could be _surprised_ by callow shit from a slick son-of-a-bitch like Isaac Abrams was beyond her.

Matter of fact, Damsel advised Nines to do exactly whatever the fuck he pleased in regards to repopulating their branch – and if either that coward Baron or that baby-face fascist has a problem with it, hell with them both. Preacher, Skelter and Doughie gone - this city's bona fide Anarch Party had bigger problems than keeping limp-wrist associates feeling secure. It made her blood pound to sit on cold corpses; waiting left a Den Mother sick in this horrible, knot-of-guts way. Three dead was a disgrace. She never particularly cared for those soldiers, and Skelter never liked her, but they were Nines's men - and so they were Damsel's men, too.

Predictably, their own Baron's response to her suggestion had been shut-down: an unkind word in public; an unkinder growl in private; that cool, collective, punishing look. He rarely appreciated comments of the _fuck waiting_ nature, didn't distinguish between venting anger and proposing disobedient plans. The speaker who became her Sire would snap, glare, gruff for everyone to settle. He'd lecture about Sabbat chest-beating and throw around words like "disloyal" or "let us down," make some furious kids ashamed of themselves. He'd tell them over and over they had to _play it smart_. This was when he did not simply ignore them - push Damsel off her soap-box, talk louder than other Anarchs, snuff the dangerous ideas before they could spark. The Den Mother tried her best not to get overly pissed off when this happened. Nines was their PR guy. It was his responsibility to say _shut up, pipe down, wait for you time. _It was her responsibility to scrape up the pieces, scatter the ash, and always - without fault - be loyal.

She was good at scraping up pieces. She was good at scattering ash. And she was good - even after all these years, all these dead kids, all these stomach aches, all these big ideas held down - at being loyal. Damsel diatribed. She did not disagree.

It'd be nice if he didn't have to be so goddamn sour with her, crises on their plate every night. Sundown started a Den Mother's mad scramble to kick dirt over the flame of what their Baron did (or didn't). That was Nines for you, though. Great talker - talk his way into a Ventrue's cabinets - but he listened to nobody, and let nobody not-listen to him.

A vinegar taste was spreading. Sighing, Damsel flopped hat and phone onto the tabletop beside her, then flatted across it, knotholes pressing into a strong, short back. She tried to be calm. When that failed, there was only looking calm, and _looking_ was usually the closest either she or Nines came these days. All that crimson spilled over, coarse and painful to see. Her eyes were a carnivorous green in the bar mirror - they narrowed on a chipped corner of glass and they scowled at it. One more hitch in the evening. One more annoyance to fix, but a more acceptable one than three missing posts and nobody lined up to fill them. Actually, the minor shit was a welcome distraction, though she'd never admit this when guerilla warfare stomped down. It was difficult to hold everything in. It was difficult not gulping your morale with that Tower spire cutting high above every smaller building. It difficult to focus on problems other than where one shot in one man's head could leave them one of these nights. And it was impossible to keep from staring at the empty chair where Skelter once sat, glaring at her, holding his shotgun and somehow holding everything in.

Playboy had situated himself there now: slumping in that seat, favorite rifle leant against the wallpaper, right where moss paper peeled to brown plank. Spry Kent-Alan was an awkward replacement for the massive, never-smiling marine. But they would have to adjust. Immediately after the episode on Santa Monica Pier, Nines ordered an all-hours door guard; there wasn't time to footsie around potential assassinations. The Den Mother doubted those Leopold fucks would dare fire on their establishment, but having missed the boardwalk, she almost wished they'd cop enough courage to try.

All right. That wasn't true. But that's what she'd told Nines. It sat a hell of a lot better than _"I'm a shaking little bitch who needs a man's approval."_ But most things that flew out of Damsel were prouder than that one, idiotic or break-neck or belligerent, whatever else. Uncertainty ate at her. Easier throw up a storm of what looked like pigheadedness, bounce everything off it, than cough up sob-stories and cry she was scared. _Scared_ didn't do jack shit. She was real scared when Margaret got herself blown sky-high; hadn't helped then, and it sure as hell isn't now. She was real scared when their Baron lugged in with a bunch of holes through him for the second time in a few months. She gets real scared with all these memorials staring down at her, their sort-of smiles and their grainy photographs, a bunch of familiar kids - a couple ones the Den Mother never met, but felt she knew. It was too easy to imagine her own face up there. It was too frightening to wonder what would be written into the wall.

Scarier than that - something she thought about all the time, but couldn't say - was who didn't make it on their wall. Nines's picture would never go up there. That wasn't a bravery oath on her behalf, a pledge to take bullets; it was just a certainty, one everybody knew: when he was gone, so were they. Maybe not right away - maybe they'd hold out another year if San Fran bussed in - but it wouldn't take long. You got a sense these people understood that. But nobody knew it better than a Den Mother who didn't belong here, didn't get told nice lies anymore, didn't earn where she was.

Damsel tried to never look at Houlihan's photo. There was too much to lose in that Valley girl blonde, that would've-been Baron who seemed mad when she smiled, these angry love notes scribbled into the wood. Most of the people who wrote those things were dead now. Not many of them got pictures, either.

She didn't mind being killed much. She was scared, more than anything else, of being let-die.

So if she was a tagalong behind the mouth of Free-State LA, Damsel would damn well not embarrass him; she wasn't going to be some spineless mercy plea who won her status by showing up. Fuck no. Skelter had always accused her of that, of not "deserving," of riding in the tail-wakes; mean, dour, honest son-of-a-bitch, seemed like he'd always be here. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of her cowering. She was not going to be another Big Goddamn Inconvenience in the life of Nines Rodriguez.

She didn't think they had a picture of him. Someone would have to slap some galoshes on, sneak back to the pier, fish out Skelter's shotgun. There was nothing else to put up.

Nines never looked at that wall. Damsel used to think that was ugly, one of the dark details a loyal Anarch and a charity Childe probably shouldn't study up-close. But she was beginning to understand now, with the clock on the door and the empty chairs; with the gunpowder closet and the outsider kids, the skinny freckled ones, never meant to make it; with his bloodstains on her shirt she'd thrown out because it wasn't worth saving, and it couldn't be cleaned. Sometimes a Den Mother felt eyes on her - sometimes felt a glance - but it always seemed like those faces were staring at him.

There was an uncomfortable, sodium pang in her gut, so Damsel picked up a coaster and hucked it at Kent-Alan's sand dollar mop of hair.

The Toreador reacted spectacularly to everything. Upside-down, she watched that cardboard saucer plink upside a pointy nose; he skittered awake with a series of snorts, gangly limbs, groping for his firearm. All that yellow ruffled across a tall forehead_. _Standard example of artiste grace; she gave a single, loud laugh, taking it at his expense. Their leggy sharpshooter was still fumbling when he saw her engine-red sneakers weren't moving. They were kicked up and crossed lazily against the wall, heels propped just beneath where their memorials began.

"Wake up, K-Al," Damsel barked, rubber toes tapping the cheap plywood. The woman's capris, fake-army fatigue, bunched around her pale knees. "You're supposed to be watching the damn door. The _door_. I look away for five minutes, and the only thing you're watching is the insides of your eyelids. Nines comes back from Hollywood and finds you drooling all over yourself, he's gonna be pissed."

"I wasn't sleeping and I definitely wasn't _drooling_," Playboy informed her, wiping a few spit spots out of his rust-colored corduroy. He stood up and dusted off, a needless gesture, leaning the rifle safely into its nook. "I was just deep in thought. Nice, meaty, controversial thoughts about… about the pyramid scheme, in fact. Nines would almost certainly commend my philosopher's spirit and quite possibly promote me."

"You are so full of shit."

Kent-Alan dragged his collapsible metal chair over to their Den Mother's booth. It was one long stroke over the floorboards, a racket in their otherwise silent first floor. Damsel's neck was bristling when he arrived; not noticing or not caring, Playboy flicked the seat into a locked position and straddled it, folding both lanky arms into a pillow for that smart, narrow chin. His knees poked out at awkward ninety-degree angles. He was a misfit sight. "You're right. You're so right. I'm lazy, good-for-nothing. Ungrateful. Terrible influence," the Toreador lamented. He buried his face into a nest of elbows. "I am unworthy of your companionship! Please show me the way, my wise Brujah battle-maid. I can see that you – unlike contemptible, slothful me – are very busy on your side of the room, valiantly holding the table down."

If the position of Damsel's feet and head were transposed, she would've kicked him right in the teeth. As it was, however, the Brujah was feeling too lethargic. She flung her beret at him instead. He ducked, and it sailed over the bar, an overthrown Frisbee. They were both too sluggish to care.

"Punk ass," the Den Mother grumbled halfheartedly, a shabby insult, flipping onto her stomach. Everything felt stiff. Just to be sure, Damsel reached for her cell and clicked it awake; nothing. A dissatisfied mutter didn't help. "Too much to ask that shit actually gets done around here, I guess. Tell me you guys at least sorted the new weapons stock out last night. I don't want to trip around in there trying to blind-load if our place lands in the middle of another siege."

Playboy chirped his answer. "Yep," he said, pretty Toreador nose bouncing _yes_. The woman was pleasantly shocked to have had chores followed in a timely manner. You could see the surprise in her raised eyebrows; as a reward, she didn't interrupt to point out how rare his help was. "Me and Deac hauled here just before they left for San Fran; was a great big mess. I went back through after you closed up yesterday and organized everything. Don't look so shocked, hey? There's some quality stuff in there. Not really to my taste, specifically, but you'll like 'em. Lot of rapid-fire goodness. Boxes of it, actually. London hooked us up sweet - for an accident, that is."

Damsel snorted her skepticism. "Cam don't have 'accidents,' runt."

Said runt thought it over; one twiggy finger touched his lips. "No," he decided, "I'm pretty sure London has had an accident or two."

"Sure. I bet that rifle explodes in your face."

"Now you're just being bitchy," Playboy needled her, and threw a sunny grin with jaw on the stack of his wrists. Damsel was back to scouring for new phone messages. It was clear from her displeased expression there weren't any. "I kind of want to like her," Kent added, closely observing the short Brujah face. "Decent shot for a clerk. Decent cute, too."

Another dubious scoff from the Den Mother. Serena Woeburne's sloppy performance in Santa Monica hadn't exactly gilt her name among anyone's circle, theirs included. This was no real surprise; though they were glad Rodriguez hadn't been barbequed upon that worthless pier, a Brujah had trouble with 'thank you,' and Damsel would not easily lend credit to Camarilla clones. Could you blame her? She was bull-horned, bellicose, brought up on tragedy and bombs and back-stabbing. A politically convenient assist meant nothing after what reeked like betrayal. Frankly, it was a little damn wonder no one around here declared the operative suspect and sent another interrogation after her pasty hide.

Kent-Alan didn't want to let that last observation slip, though; one could never tell when Red's temper would swell, tip critical mass and go nova. Besides, she wasn't wrong. You could never tell when it was safe to grant corporates actual gratitude and when you ought to be waiting for their shiv in the ribs.

"Whatever," she dismissed. It was a flip of a hand and a gouge of someone who had no heroes anymore. "I'll take her guns. Long as that Scepter doesn't start singing company praises around our kids. Or start eying up my bar."

The front buzzer cut their conversation short.

"Who the fuck could that be?" Damsel snapped, flabbergasted someone had actually used the bell. Booting was generally the preferred mode of entry among Anarchs and those they occasionally entertained; it was an odd change, an alien sound, something unexpected in this pitiably mundane night. She stared at the dark, flaking paint for a moment before moving. _Appointments_ weren't exactly standard fare, either; Damsel couldn't remember inviting new recruits, nor had she been warned to welcome - not since that thin-blood whose name didn't matter much anymore. That had become Nines's scene. And he was likely still neck-deep in Isaac's spectacular rotating repertoire of bullshit by this hour. Who prances up and rings the fucking number of a place like this? Who is that stupid or that steaming fresh?

Maybe she should get used to that sound. Maybe she should get used to the notion of having real kids in these parts. There wasn't enough time to feel unsure or jealous about her sort-of-Sire's enlistment plan. Damsel decided she'd better mother over any authentic Childe of Nines Rodriguez, because "mother" was her job title, and care her debt owed. She had an accountability to guide those who needed it, and fuck knows he didn't have the time...

"This better be the goddamn CDC footmen and not your dumb-ass ghoul…" That said, the woman rolled off their booth and past Kent-Alan, moving to answer the strange use of door.

"Oh, shit - you don't really think it's her, do you?" he asked. Kent had bleached; the Toreador shrunk upon his chair, fingers tightening, brown eyes glistening wide. That fast-finger nonchalance was now cowering behind a sad barrier of sadder furniture.

"How the fuck should I know? I don't know what Patty does. I don't know why the hell you brought that wretched bitch on yourself. All I know is I'm about to answer the fucking door."

"It can't be her," Playboy insisted, though he was already skittered towards the stairway for cover. Hanks of burnt gold ruffled on hunched shoulders. He sounded spooked and more than a little annoyed. "No way. There is no freaking way she found this address. I can't even... I haven't talked to Patty in months," he swore, tensing, throat tight. "Didn't you tell her I was dead or something?

"Hey, twinkle-toes – I'm telling you to shut up, get on the wall and hold your gun," Damsel barked. An unknown entity reverted her to defense mode. The vampire's t-shirt was rumpled across her breastbone; she wore no kind of protection for herself. "We're not taking any chances. If there's some hunter dipshit on the other side of this door, you better have a fucking bead on him; do you understand? I am not getting shot tonight. I'm not about to bleed out on my own motherfucking floor."

The Toreador nodded, hefted his Remington, and aimed throat-level. Damsel's discarded beret went ignored; she thumped behind their largely vacant bar, retrieved a six-shot pistol, and clicked open the barrel to check. It was full and heavy. Bad energy twanged through the Brujah like a crossbow string. Resolved with the gun in her small hand, she advanced, swung the locks open – soles dug into a nubby mud mat – one hand tightening around the grip. Its trigger sweated beneath her oppressive finger. It thrust out long before her face did.

"…and I guess that makes you Damsel," the man outside said, blinking cross-eyed at the muzzle glaring inches from his nose.

Recognition gave them pause.

The Den Mother did not flinch; her pistol did not droop. The visitor was startled and frozen. Neither one of them spoke again for fear of inciting violence, yetthere was that sure statement of her name ringing – like they'd met a dozen times before – making curiosity bubble, edge out the awkwardness of blood and size difference. A chill blew in off the Pacific. She glanced him head-to-toe, then – each standing at the other side of a gun – hers an alpha demeanor. Damsel wrinkled. She glowered. She let out a short, irritated puff.

He didn't look threatening. The stranger outside her Elysium was big but passive: slack posture; rough appearance; long, drawn features and a slightly off-center bite that dragged the face down. His accent was vaguely Australian. His aura was even vaguer, a diluted mash of surf, popcorn, palm leaves and beast. Typical fare here. Everyone knew this image, supernatural or not: _nothing-special_. Nothing strange. The boy's hair was mussed, scorched-sand orange, and his clothes were simple in the way of Army Surplus. His heritage smelled like watered gin.

"Yeah, that's right," the woman snarled to prove her grit. She was all rioteer aggression and frizzy scarlet hat-hair. Her revolver did not shift a centimeter. This Den Mother's cynicism was rooted in impatience and a need to appear large. "And who the fuck might you be?"

"Look, it probably doesn't matter," he said. The thin-blood was on his toes, an attempt to peek around Damsel's stout frame and into the smoggy club to where Kent-Alan stood with weapon at standby. He had limited success. She frowned. It was a finger dragged across her memory, one the Brujah swore to have seen before. "I realize you're busy. I don't plan on staying. I'm just looking for someone. Can you help me out?"

The half-assed prelude to questions did not make this matron happy, yet it seemed to flatten her hackles somewhat. She lowered the pistol, but her associate was ready to fire at a millisecond's provocation. "And who would that be? I'm not a goddamn blood-witch."

The male looked increasingly uneasy. He swallowed, but held his ground. "Listen, my name's E." Finally an introduction. "I'm trying to find my Sire; I know she spends a lot of time in this place, and I know you know her. Lily talked about you a lot."

Realization dawned. It was not relieved, cheerful realization; it was an unsettled, exasperated heave. Knowing Lily had spoken of her did not raise Damsel's spirits, and it did not forgive.

She appeared suddenly uncomfortable. That vibrant scowl, lime juice and punishment, flickered over him twice, searching anxiously, before abandoning their work and rolling upwards in her skull. An insult, yes, and an expression of dislike. But they did not look him in the eye again. "Oh, Jesus," the Den Mother muttered. She threw an aggravated sigh. She waved down the Toreador behind her, impatient, unfriendly, and somehow reluctant about what there was left to say. He wanted to catch her attention directly. He could not; she would not let him try. "Figures I'd end up stuck in the middle of this. Degrassi romance shit. Look, jack. I'm not going to send you on a goose chase. Yeah, this is The Last Round and I know your girlfriend - you're in the right place. But you're barking up the wrong tree. She don't come around here any more."

"What? Since when?" E demanded, snapping before he knew he'd spoken. The Den Mother sharpened at him, but a brief downwards flash – something that looked like guilt – kept her attitude in line with her candy-red shoes.

"Since a while now," she told him, fidgeting. Damsel leant huskily against the door frame, blocking his entrance. "Shit, I don't fucking know. I don't keep her calendar. I'm not Missing Persons. Why don't you call?"

The Caitiff's unhappiness evolved into a full glare. He could not control it. She smelled weedy power and dread that rattled in him, a fear confirmed. "Don't you think that's occurred to me? I can't get a hold of her and I can't reach her boss so I'm checking here. Really, Damsel: I don't want to cause trouble for you," he reminded, pushing the rising alarm back into his gut. Those roving eyes were still plastered wide. She did not look at him, would not look at him, could not spare the energy or care. "I just want to talk to Lily. Look, is she there? Will you tell her to come out here for a second, please? I only want to make sure she's all right."

"Uh. I thought I made things pretty clear, but for some reason, you don't seem to be hearing me. That because you're stupid, deaf, or are you working on a death wish?" the Brujah grumbled back, bitterness flaring. Small garnet lips winced into a premature growl, gunless hand tightening around the handle of door. "I just told you that she doesn't come here anymore. So I can't help you. I don't know where she hangs out nowadays, where she's living, or anything about her. And frankly, your Sire's failure to keep you on your choke-chain in no way is my problem. So I would appreciate it if you'd turn your shit around get the hell off my damn stoop."

The neonate didn't look like he believed her, whites glazed and fingers folding into fists at either side. His incredulity riled Damsel – who had been charitable in talking to some thin-blood pity-case; had been charitable not killing him; had been charitable tolerating people washed up from these dregs for any reason, even the ones asked of her, especially the recruitment ones. But a grim, lingering anchor still hung around that name: _Lily Harris_. It withdrew lies. It prevented her from hauling off and slapping this kid. Desperate for friendship, she'd almost allowed Slim to grow on her - air-headed, too-tall, gangly bitch. She was so useless. My God, was she useless - useless, pointless, always asking stupid questions, expecting answers that could make her live. Maybe it had seemed soothing having fresher blood around for a while. And maybe it was all right to have another female. But she was so _stupid_, Jesus, so blind-eyed and fucked. There was no way a girl like that would make it. There was no reason to get attached. Sheepish bitch had been so ignorant, she'd actually been scared of the young Den Mother; she'd had this fuzzy, harebrained esteem for the antagonistic way Damsel talked to Nines, the flak in how she hollered, how a woman with nobody held her ground against a den of older creatures. And there was something else less complicated that, another kind of admiration, like someone you felt you could trust. Dumb kid – she was so green, so stupid – she really invested in the front of all this. She thought Damsel deserved respect.

"I want to talk to Nines Rodriguez," E announced, unwavering, terrified, wanting to be made of steel.

The Den Mother laughed and it sounded like pain.

"Get in line, motherfucker," she barked, and she slammed the door.


	44. Bethulia

**Bethulia**

Do you know: bereft of business deals, free from commitments, and removed from the nexus that is vampire politicking, a Ventrue's mind strolls to some awfully strange places.

Or perhaps they weren't so strange. It is not often, after all, that bluebloods find the opportunity to idle; it is even rarer that a scurrying Foreman might allow herself to grow bored. Camarilla badges are unaccustomed to pruning in leisure. Nevertheless, here and now, Ms. Woeburne had time to kill_ –_ like it or not, as a matter of fact, and this very anxious personage did _not _like it.

Hours whittled by without deadlines. Nights passed that hosted no plenary sessions. Serena hadn't received a _LaCroix Foundation_ envelope since she set foot on Chicago soil, and the freedom of this dangling, jobless state was cracking Sebastian's duty-bound protégé straight down to her tailbone. Every day that sank without a purpose pressing Ms. Woeburne's shoulders, the woman paced, wondering what the hell it is she ought to be doing. Unspent energy wound up her nerves into briar bush knots. The good corporal suffered through three of those damn school dreams in one week, lurching halfway out of bed to remember, queerly, she hadn't taken a final exam in decades, nor run through corridors littered with sun.

As if things weren't already complicated enough in her life: vacation was much harder than it sounded.

Frankly, Chicago didn't host a great deal that appealed to Kindred with the unforgiving personality this one had. Height was a superficial novelty to Venture Tower personnel; Sears had nothing to offer. Pouty clubs held no purpose; fine dining served even less. Freshwater vistas were found lacking after trial-by-fire on California's palm coast. The museums on that lakefront might once have enticed, but they all closed down before five, and Serena just wasn't interested in afterhours gate-hops for the sake of dusty pterosaur bones. (And, incidentally: _this_ officer never wanted to set foot on another bloody pier as long as she lived, Navy, Santa Monica or otherwise.)

Employment status notwithstanding, a smart Ventrue never truly flips off their inclination to investigate, and all Ventrue called themselves smart. Indeed, the Prince's Childe could scarcely walk into a room these days without taking mental inventories – mapping escape routes, improvising weapons, flagging items of intrigue and vantage points. It felt less like smart and more like paranoid as wind blew, sailboats dinged against their white-surf harbors, and their bells made her eyelids heavy where she sat in this arrogant hotel. No ancilla could be _too_ paranoid, this one reasoned. The impulse to deconstruct her surroundings had saved Ms. Woeburne's life more than once, especially since Los Angeles. She'd become so adept at it, in fact, that the world seemed to slow to a heartbeat – stone pupil, celery iris, targeted interests – making time for analysis and preventative planning, counted in seconds, measured in how long a novice Patrician managed to survive.

Serena was currently analyzing the contents of her mini-bar when the phone rang.

"Woeburne," she answered, scooping the cell from a desk corner. The Drake's suites seemed rather small, making her elbows feel cramped, but they were lavishly decorated; free space choked on expensive mahogany, twisting staircases and Roaring Twenties décor. Ridiculous lamp shades, imperial textiles and black steel trefoil dominated their bedroom themes. Ms. Woeburne understood the lake view from her floor was spectacular in mid-afternoon, as well – sun-glare on metallic blues – but for obvious reasons, she did not partake in this luxury. It hardly mattered. _'One can only stare at so much water, anyway.'_

_"Oh, good. _ _I've decided I'd like to speak with you, young one, regarding this sarcophagus business,"_ was Mr. Beckett's idea of a greeting. Fortunately, there was no mistaking that simpering and disillusioned voice. Serena sat up straight against the yellow lounge chair, pastel against gray pajama sateen. It was August, now, and just enough time had passed to make her seriously consider giving this very man an uninvited business call.

"That's excellent. Hello. Of course," she agreed, a misordered jumble of points, genuinely relieved he'd deigned to consider. A black-tie's excitement was embarrassingly apparent, too: high pitch, telephone jitter, sudden enthusiasm and pomp. Ms. Woeburne rolled a tiny green vodka bottle between two fingers, the other hand tapping nervously away with a fountain pen. (It wasn't as if she'd actually hoped to find something suitable for her macabre belly in The Drake's selection, but one had to admit, their snack presentation was inviting. The scent of cellophaned cinnamon rolls curdled her stomach, yet – glazed in pretty, glossy frosting – they _looked_ delectable. She _ahem_ed.) "Answering questions about all this is my first priority. We can meet as soon as you're able." Serena stood and reached for the blouse slung over a bedside table, a handful of houndstooth. She shrugged off her housecoat and tugged it on. "Tonight, if it's convenient."

"_Tonight would be very convenient,"_ he confirmed. The Foreman was hopping out of her ugly sweats and into a reserved brown skirt.

"Lovely," Ms. Woeburne lied. The Ventrue's freest hand raked her bedhead brunette into something remotely alive. "I'll bring along a few extra documents I've received. Let me know if you need anything copied before we meet up, as well, and I'd be glad to take care of it. When would you like to-?"

"_Right now."_

There was a three-rap knock at the door.

With nothing else to do, Serena crossed the suite, tripped over a pair of shoes, bumped one knee against her bedstead, and answered.

Sure enough: Beckett.

"And here you are," he commented, not-at-all-excited about this fact, stare a sliver of black set in vicious orange. She could barely read his expression behind the sunglasses, but figured 'unimpressed' was a solid guess. Serena felt very ill-groomed standing in front of him there. She scrutinized the offset mouth, the impeccable ponytail of jet, a hat that absorbed the hallway lamplight. His hide coat sat in an unwelcoming way.

"…Ah. All right. I see. Hello," the Ventrue saluted him, wincing at how stupid that sounded. She cringed in the face of an awkward second impression. The Gangrel's gaze was fixed mildly downwards.

"Did I come too early this time? Last time I was late," he said, and it occurred to Serena he was probably looking at her bare toes.

"No. No, no," Ms. Woeburne apologized. Unpreparedness made her efforts, usually spick-and-span, clumsy. They made her grimace apparent. "I wasn't expecting you so suddenly. Not that it's a problem, mind you; I'm happy you responded. Relieved, really. And honored. Especially honored." Somewhere in the midst of understatement correction, Sebastian's ambassador seemed to realize she was babbling. She stopped. She blinked. She bit her tongue, a small corporal punishment.

"I could come back," he suggested, pleasantly, and she knew it meant he never would.

"No! No," the Ventrue insisted. _No, no, no_ - that is the people they were. "Just..." And here she smiled, cheeks wrinkling dramatically, a sunny grin that made its owner feel like absolute shit. "Just give me a moment to put some shoes on."

She shrunk away from the door – accidentally slammed it on him – and then Serena whirled around, pulling a tie from her hair, groping for socks, and lacing up the nearest pair in record speed.

They were boots. Riding boots. Nice, military, colonial black leather boots; the sort of heels you clicked in, mounted a stirrup in, or used to step neatly on somebody's throat. Oh, it was too terribly obvious.

When the emissary stumbled back (now fully-dressed), Beckett was still standing there, eyebrows raised. The smile on his face was transitory and unenthusiastic. Having been rudely shut out of Ms. Woeburne's business once tonight already, he waited to see if she was prepared for conversation before trudging on. Serena hovered, blinking rapidly, puzzling out what redemptive thing might be said.

"So," she decided, flicking out her best company sparkle. Ventrue charm went on like a light bulb _'snick!'_ And, like junior officers with obvious boots, it was a bit too overpowering. "You wanted to discuss the sarcophagus, yes? I've been very much looking forward to speaking of it with you. Shall we make use of The Drake's executive lounge? It's pleasant enough; I'm sure the night staff will clear it for us if I ask nicely." (Translation: _'I'm sure the vacuum-pushing clods won't be able to resist my Dominate.'_)

The historian did a mediocre job of not stereotyping. "If it's all the same, no thank you. This place is too stuffy for my tastes. Makes it hard to breathe," he observed. LA's advocate stared at him blank-faced for ten solid seconds before it occurred to her that this was a joke. Beckett rolled his eyes and ushered them onward.

"We can sit down and talk wherever you'd like-" she'd been saying when he cut her off, not needing a footman's approval.

"Let's go for a walk, instead," the scholar suggested. "This shouldn't take very long, and I'm sure you have other chores on your evening to-do." (_"Actually… no," _didn't seem appropriate, so she held it in.)

With little else to chat about in this somber and antiquated corridor, they stepped into an elevator (thankfully unoccupied), riding it to the sparsely-populated ground floor. There was a look of political bitterness darkening the man's baseline sarcasm; Serena wisely kept her mouth shut until prompted to speak. Doubly-fortunate, this, as it suddenly dawned on the representative that she hadn't brushed her teeth after feeding an hour ago. Ms. Woeburne ended up standing there, arms clamped soldierly at either side, sucking constructively at her enamel and watching the panel brighten up from _10_ to _G_. _'What am I, a god-damned Gangrel?'_ went unsaid, no offense intended. He was very tall, she noticed from this vantage point, and not very heavily-built, but it wasn't as if one couldn't scrounge up a rugby league of Brujah anywhere with rock music.

"Generally I am not altogether fond of making advance plans where my research is concerned," the archeologist informed her. He shouldered past the lift doors and through a luggage-strewn lobby with Serena trotting after. It was terribly pretentious, terribly geometric, terribly black-on-white. "But since I realize that you are on a deadline – and I hear Sebastian LaCroix can throw a dreadful temper-tantrum – consider me onboard."

Ventrue eyes, lemongrass and pessimistic, widened shamelessly in the dim front lounge. "Are you honestly?" she asked, bristling in a gust of coolness, too cautious for thank-you or another empty _excellent_. "I understand your hesitance, and how we tend to push. So it's not that I don't appreciate you saying so. But truthfully, if the decision isn't made..."

_Balk_.

"I'm sorry," she backtracked, lifting an apologetic hand to placate, a clatter of briefcases unloading behind them from their squeaking trolly-car. There was a buzz in the bar where three businessmen drank. Beckett hadn't said anything, but you could feel his fine hairs start to brickle and rise. "I'm so sorry. Of course the decision is made; you did just say so. Don't mind me. Please. I wasn't suggesting you'd lie, or take this lightly, but… My God, you know, you have _no _idea how true that is," surged out in a shudder of anxious laughter. She was grinning inanely, palm pressed over her shirt collar, battening the flutter of reassurance beneath a cold breastbone.

Marbled floors panged beneath stringy calves. Serena was still smiling away, scatterbrained by the blissful knowledge Sebastian was once again likely to accept his shambling Childe back – and he would really take her back; he practically had to – when they stepped outside, into a damp sweep of street, where the lamplight toasted concrete into bleak sienna sand.

"About the deadline," Beckett wondered, blandly, "or the temper-tantrums?"

"Both." It was automatic. She regretted it instantly.

LaCroix's diplomat fumbled to retract the latest foolish thing. "I mean to say. Who doesn't? Isn't? On a deadline, that is. Do you know: I was really thinking of something else." A mortified, freshman _hah-hah-hah_. She tried to recover. It was not very convincing. It was a deep, fresh-smelling city night; the dusk took sleepy blue tones. "Yes. Anyhow. We'd be indebted to you, Mr. Beckett - my Sire and his offices - for any assistance you're willing to offer. Would you like to speak with the Giovanni excavation manager directly? I have her number on file, and I'm sure she'd be delighted."

"That won't be necessary," the professor brushed. His strides on the sidewalk were long and oddly canine-like. His expression was flat save for a slight, skeptical smirk at one corner, its natural resting position. "I'm sure there's nothing a Giovanni could tell me about archeology. Granted, Assyrian burial art is not my area of expertise, but I'll drop a line to some colleagues who might provide their insight, too. That will all come in due time, however. At present, I have a few questions you could answer before I sign my winter away to study in California."

Ms. Woeburne nodded, eyebrows over her glasses ridge. They crossed a busy intersection on foot and proceeded another block. Chicago's Dutch elms, traffic lights, cinema butter and cicadas were a stark but not unwelcome contrast to LA's saltwater, strobe-lights and tanning lotion. Car wheels howled by, perpetual motion in blackness; tires rattled on rusted river bridges that arched their spines from some steampower history. You could breathe in industry, an ominous musk. Her heels clicked potholes. Everything always seemed wet. "Please, by all means. I'm not a sciences buff, myself, but I'll help you with whatever I can. It's the least I can do."

"I'm sure. Keep in mind this won't affect my ultimate decision to inspect the sarcophagus. But I am curious: how, exactly, did it fall into your Prince's lap?" He must have seen LaCroix's Childe hesitate, pulling at the felt black buttons on her haughty blouse, because his next remark was a sigh. "There's no need to fret about keeping Sebastian's secrets, my young Ventrue. I assure you: I'll find out about those that concern my purposes, either way. All you're really doing is saving me a few phone calls. And because you are _so_ exceedingly grateful for and honored by my interest… well. I think it would behoove you to work with me, don't you?"

"Point taken," Serena reasoned. They had no real destination; she kept up as Beckett hastened his already too-fast walking speed. High-rises of an odd architecture crowded around them with broad brick backs. Past the south of the Loop, where these trains forked away, you could smell where pretty park districts would drop into violent rot. Condemnation, dripping air conditioners, moldering bathrooms and dried blood; their feet took them toward these. It felt like a glum place that wanted to be old. "I understand Mr. LaCroix was made privy to the sarcophagus dig by a Nagaraja visiting on some unrelated business of her own. To be clear: we have no ties. The Ankaran tip was part of a small trade between them, nothing more. She only directed him to the Giovanni, though; I have no idea how they became involved with it."

The Gangrel spared her a brief persimmon glance. "You're certain?"

"Yes, quite certain," she guaranteed him. A tumbleweed of newspaper scuttled across the way for her nimble feet to dodge. There was less and less traffic as they moved, and the alleys grew darker, the smells wetter, thicker, suddenly full of something wild. It was an itch like being with Brujah. You could look and feel the intensity sharpened beneath a stare. It was a funnel of anger that outpoured at your heart. In one moment, nothing said, you could taste the hate. "Seems I was a middleman caught up in all this. It must be said that the Giovanni have just recently become friendly with our organization, however. We've had some administration changes... you'll find out more once you arrive. It may streamline your investigation; my Sire brought a Giovanni onto his advisory board late last month, actually, something I can only assume will assist you. She has been personally charged with making sure the sarcophagus safely reaches his Domain."

Beckett didn't look altogether enlightened. "Thank you for volunteering the information, young one, but scientific matters will suffice. I'm really not interested in local politics."

"I'd love to have that luxury," Ms. Woeburne chuckled. "I _don't_, of course. Clearly. But I'd love to. And my offer, for that, is sincere: if you require anything else – anything at all – please do not hesitate to ask it."

She threw favors in, following around a weed-grown overpass. A scrawny jackrabbit sprung through chain-link and off into the gutters. Crowds thinned to brief, dangling pockets of life as they cut through narrow streets, off downtown's beaten main ways; eventually, their only company was underclass, navigating dry nooks with cagey eyes. Skyscrapers devolved into soggy apartments and discount office space. Wind pressed noisily into fire escapes overhead. Parking garages loomed. There did not seem to be enough lamp lights, though the post numbers were sufficient; it was the safety that was not. Motes swarmed in the air and tweaked fine hairs, bare skin. This is the thick kind of dark with an appetite. Ms. Woeburne felt tasted and she did not enjoy the premonition of being somebody's meal.

"I have been instructed to do whatever I can to accommodate you," the Foreman continued because he did not. She wished her face would not glow in the little moon there was. Train cars rattled far behind them in busier latitudes of a prisonish grid. "Prince LaCroix also insists that I make sure you're aware of how very appreciative he is of your efforts. He regrets being unable to convene in-person, and promises his undivided attention once you arrive in Los Angeles. I, too, am obliged you'd condescend to meet with me. Of course."

Beckett's response to Camarilla obligation was to reach over, nonchalant, and pull a dust-bunny from the half-combed mess of its spokesman's hair.

The action made her just about as miserable as he'd guessed it would. She watched the lint tuft flick away, dismayed, stuck in a sort of dumb resignation to being a corporate buffoon.

"And as I was... I was saying," Woeburne puttered out, slumping, defeated.

She let out a big gust of air.

"Yes," Serena decided. "I guess I'll just say it again."

The Gangrel stopped to blink mildly at her - a pause beneath the grim, dangerous corner of a minor, moldering street. She gulped a rock ball of saliva and humiliation. Do you know, it really hurt.

"Please," Woeburne bid him, "Please feel free to investigate the sarcophagus at your leisure. We would be… eager, I think, to read what you unearth. Once we have the artifact in our possession, my Sire will receive you, and I'm certain will want to be a hands-on participant. Until then, points of interest can be sent directly to me. The Foundation will, of course, compensate for whatever pertinent information you forward us." Serena was not sure why she entertained the fleeting thought _this_ might please him when so many other fumbling dialogues had not. Still, better to bludgeon onward than meander endlessly. She was already mapping a beeline, a groan, and a Drake pillow face-plant to stew over how badly her professional image had been mangled in the course of one measly hour.

"Of _course_ you will," Beckett said, his placating tone eerily similar to a maths teacher Ms. Woeburne once had. She frowned there on the cement like the bruised little prefect she was. "I'll probably head west somewhere within these next few months. You can access my records then. Prior to that time, I kindly request _not_ to be bombarded by messages from the LaCroix administration."

"I understand," the woman told him robotically. "I will leave you to your own and be in touch when the sarcophagus arrives."

"Excellent. I hope your Sire is as understanding as you are, young one." The Gangrel adjusted his spectacles, then tugged out a coat collar crease. "Science doesn't tick away on a company clock, you know. And I, personally, don't work very well with deadlines. Fortunately, however – as you've already noted – I have the privilege of not giving a damn."

Serena managed to smile a bit. From her lackey's post - from her shoulderpads, her click-pens and her spit-shined company badge - it was difficult to sink one's teeth into the notion of being an apolitical vampire. Order was the conduit through which their world worked. A predator could not avoid that necessity, could not shirk it, any more than they could forego hiding from clever prey. Still, one had to love the way this Beckett talked. His was an arrogant, indolent intelligence that differed from the cool and dismissive conceit Sebastian swung around. Ghastly as her performance had been tonight, Ms. Woeburne found herself liking the sighing old academic. "Liking" didn't help her appreciate, of course, how a solitary being might go about securing a safe, neutral niche in their voracious society. His lifestyle was ideal for his obsessions, it seemed - grave-robbing, skepticism and mystique - all three having made him a figurehead of the Gangrel community.

LaCroix's Childe lacked the strength of individualism, skill sets and parentage to humor independence even in the dreamiest sense. Still – setting aside harsh, authoritarian reality and how her pragmatism scoffed – the prospect was remarkable. It was a position exclusive to him: a rover who could quite well wander about the world chasing crypt clues, needing no overbearing faction, relatively without fear. And no wonder, perhaps. Who would want to kill the foremost authority on their species?

In retrospect, Serena realized she ought've learned not to think these things by now.

Three bullets had splattered around them before the Ventrue could react. One twanged off a light post, ripping through rust, disappearing down the block. A second plunged into a nearby fire hydrant, gushing sewer water onto summer pavement. The third and final shot whistled forward, popped a stitch on Ms. Woeburne's sleeve, and very precisely struck Beckett somewhere in the vicinity of his left shoulder.

It was a sort of slow-motion, a mental delay. She witnessed the vampire's arm snap back through a haze of deafness. His glasses flew off and clattered somewhere onto the quiet street adjacent. Two perfect drops of blood bounced into the air and dispersed.

One of these days, Hendon's tongue-in-cheek PA was going to stop tempting the Fates like this, you mark her. The rounds went whistling by – each of them a neat little punctuation to interrupt some Camarilla assumption – and sped time, dragged these pieces back. They sounded farther away than they were. They sung close to her head. And they made the woman feel quite assured, then, of Heaven, the divine, of some supreme mastermind for it all. Things like this were too terrible for coincidence and too punctual for jokes. Yes, perhaps there really was some grandfather Ancient sitting back on his laurels to orchestrate the lesser demons' brief, bumbling, erratic lives.

And you know, whoever he was, He absolutely fucking loathed Ms. Woeburne.

There was no mist of panic. Serena's vision remained incredibly clear. She determined the gunfire's origins were somewhere behind her, and took four half-seconds to scan the rooftops, scouting for sniper cover. A metal bench would do. Then, with little decorum when there wasn't time for any, the operative lurched forward and over it. Her elbow purposefully caught one corner. Steel legs jutted skyward when the piece upended, scraping loudly against cement, a makeshift barricade. She was not aware of who grabbed whose flailing arm; one blur of motion, and Ms. Woeburne was crouching with Beckett against the crumbling sidewalk, this toppled bit of furniture the best shelter they could find.

"Beckett! My God, are you all right?" barely cleared the agent's throat before a window shattered in grim business complex overhead. Serena ducked, shoulders to earlobes. She fiercely cursed herself for having left the damn Kahr in Drake Hotel's personal safe. Adrenaline was whacking through her system and she could not risk moving, not for anything, not even to help him. All there was to do was speak. "Beckett?" she asked again.

And there he was, was kneeling beside the frightened Ventrue, looking - though it confused her greatly - like a man mildly surprised. He glanced around for his lost spectacles, dabbing at what little damage had been done. Burgundy splotches opened simple clothing. From their current position, hunkered here behind a partition made of park bench, Ms. Woeburne couldn't ascertain how badly he'd been injured.

The Gangrel didn't seem too terribly fazed by lead pellets in his breastbone, however. By the time LaCroix's progeny seized her scare and reached out to apply pressure – oh, god, it was awfully familiar, a dreadful memory; she knew he must be easier to touch than an Anarch; she hoped his red wouldn't be so terribly animal dark – Beckett's recovery was underway. He stiffened briefly, plucking two splinters out of solidified flesh. The bullet had apparently broken on contact with tissue; it split, hammering dully into exterior muscle, but sinking no farther. Fortitude had cut it to the quick. The scholar studied them disinterestedly before dropping both bits to the asphalt.

"That actually stung a bit," he remarked, more ruffled than wounded, and brushed off the stained lapel. There was not a single ebon tendril out of place. He looked down at himself, hunting offhandedly for scratches – to coat or flesh, she was not sure. "Are you aware of someone in particular who wants us dead, young one?"

Ms. Woeburne considered this question as much as one being shot at could, gave up on fishing an answer, and did the only thing she could in their present situation. The Ventrue heaved out a whimsical, self-depreciating sigh.

"Oh, no," she replied. Car breaks squealed somewhere down the abandoned side street. "Not, you know, _particularly_."

They crouched there another handful of minutes, neither speaking nor shifting, until it became clear their assailant had departed or depleted his ammunition supply. Bored night birds began twittering their restlessness; city rodents shuffled tree leaves. Serena had instinctively reached for a gun that wasn't there at least four times before she dared to feel untargeted again. The chronically unconcerned Gangrel patted his bruise like one might dust off a scraped knee.

Beckett, who was quite over this would-be homicide, stood up, took a look around, and pulled Ms. Woeburne to her feet by the Ventrue's forearm.

"Damn it," she swore, viciously so, not bothering to control her nerves. There was a shake vibrating up the Foreman's fingers to elbows. Gravel bits stuck both hips of her skirt. Tresses wafted around a scowling, startled face. She did not care if there was lint in them. Needing something to busy her hands, Ms. Woeburne began to clean - tidying, straightening, swiping at the scuffs of those neat black boot.

"What on earth," she cursed again - and a curse it was, though it was not a cuss at all. "I can't imagine why… I have no inkling, no inkling," the corporal promised. "There would be no point. I'm carrying nothing, you know, and I've angered no one, stepped on no body's toes. There's no reason. There's really no reason at_ all._"

"Come, now. There must be _some_ reason. Else why waste a perfectly good fifty caliber?" Beckett might have been trying to help. He was not, and she glared - at him, at the industrial city, at no one in particular who had just attempted to blast out their brains.

Serena snorted, faculties spinning. She readjusted her glasses with violent, bothered hands. She snorted again. Two digits began massaging the woman's temples. The Gangrel did not interrupt; he let her prattle on a while, deliberate it, deflate the tension like a tapped balloon. "Thank God no one got hurt. At least there's that. But - oh, _no_. Lord. You were shot, weren't you? Damn it! Oh, God damn it, what a mess. What a perfect mess."

"Not a perfect mess," he observed, generously. "It would've been much more perfect if they'd actually shot something out of me."

True or not, this imperfect mess was enough of one to wrench Woeburne with a stomach-sick, furious cringe. This was no doubt going to look stellar on her home-base report. She grabbed pleadingly for one of his arms. "I am so sorry, Beckett. I really… I don't know what just happened. I'm not aware of anyone who'd stand to gain from this. In fact, I don't see how that's possible; the Ankaran dig is top-level classified. Perhaps this was just a fluke, or a… no, that wouldn't make sense. None of it does. None of it ever makes any bloody sense until it's over."

He watched the ancilla launch into a curt brainstorming session, frown deepening, plum lips compressing into a harried line. She murmured unintelligibly to herself. There was something to be counted off on the five fingers of one smudged left hand. A cuss, a brood, perpetual frustration unpent.

"Perhaps they'll have demands," the Gangrel wondered, another half-hearted help.

She sighed. There were neat nail marks where she'd pinched pink the bridge of her nose. "Perhaps. I don't know; I've got no intel; none at all. Either way," the Foreman snapped. "It seems they - whoever they are - are long gone now."

Beckett glanced past the trainwreck of Ventrue, focused down one clattering alleyway, and sniffed the air.

"Don't worry," he said, conversational as ever. The historian offered his lazy almost-smile. "I'll get them."

"I really think we ought to head back to the Drake," Ms. Woeburne murmured, and as she did so, the Ventrue's eyes reached through those leaking apartments – took apart the toothed glass, lighted windows, open clues. They took apart the danger. They did not shy or blink. They analyzed.

But by the time they glanced back, Beckett was nowhere to be seen.


	45. Teeth of the Wolf

**Teeth of the Wolf  
**

It was a halfway pleasant night for a hunt. The autumn moon was high and waxing, stippled overcast purple; the air was slightly humid, cooled by lakefront breeze. White light peeked between the bullish silhouettes of fat foundries and steel skyscraper bone. Cicadas buzzed in trimmed park project canopies. Rain scent promised midnight storms, stirred urban nature from tall grasses, and kept civilians well enough off the unprotected streets.

Violence, of course, was still a bothersome and usually unnecessary distraction. Less interesting than dashing through Methuselah tombs, to be sure - and less hazardous to his immediate health - but being terrified for one's continued existence made appreciating ancient stonework very difficult, anyway. A dark run through a wet city after some amateur assassin was considerably easier on Beckett's nerves. Easier on his poor feet, too.

Paws, to be specific.

Anyway: four toes or five, it was simple enough to narrow in on the perpetrator. Inhumane young Gangrel tended to carry, much like one might cigar musk on a coat, that particular, unwashed aroma of dewclaw, dander and dead cats. Beckett, who was neither inhumane nor unwashed, detected it quickly. Once he'd recovered from the inconvenient slam of a rifle bullet, that is; fortunately for everyone, the hitman's marksmanship had been somewhat lacking. If a cartridge punctured a lung instead of a shoulder, the historian's mood would be markedly less pleasant about this whole misguided affair. One oughtn't lightly gun down lore-makers in a society as superstitious as theirs. The shot had been just a few centimeters off - proving, he supposed, that sometimes one did get plainly and simply lucky. Tracking and cleanup would be a piece of cake. Just follow your nose, really.

Beckett wasn't worried. Not honestly. He was vaguely interested in knowing who felt Los Angeles's sarcophagus venture was worth executing scholars, however. Perhaps LaCroix's high-strung girl hadn't been entirely incorrect when she wondered if this attack might be some sort of fluke. _'Still, it's not a bad idea to find out which sect would like me dead. Particularly when they've done such a below-average job at it,'_ the man decided. Towers loomed tightly together at his left, the rim of downtown; darkened stretches of green space stood between Lake Michigan and city core, punctuated by sparse streetlamps, carved with lonely jogger's paths. They were cold and smooth against the pads of his toes, smelling of the sneakers that had been there hours before. Someone well-meaning in the hazy glow of shorefront called _here-boy, here-boy_, but it went unheeded.

Most passersby tended to mistake his canine form for a large domestic – Alaskan mix, perhaps – which ironically made traveling in this body easier than the human one. Mortals either shrieked and shied or stuck fingers in their mouths to whistle. Beckett did not mind this, and might've made a decent dog, he imagined, in another life. But he veered into shadow when a taxi cab swerved uncomfortably close. Humans might be unawares as to the fangs beneath the fur, but being knocked senseless by public transport would be embarrassing, if not a Masquerade violation. _'Knowing me, some pet-lover might call Animal Control. That would be an awkward explanation.'_

So it was hand-claps echoing behind him, another four-block jaunt, a sharp right hook up one grimy cul-de-sac, then a scraping lunge under broken chain-link and _ta-da! _

The sharpshooter slid vividly down the emotional spectrum when two massive paws planted upon his unsuspecting back, one on either scapula. Calling him "surprised," however, didn't cover it. Clearly they'd risked no one important in this cockamamie bid. Poor scraggled wretch was all yelps and squeals, muscle hunching tight as it would go, stomach hitting damp asphalt with a sullen '_thwump'_ in a derelict side-street. Fear rattled off close walls made from windows and brick. He somersaulted onto his back as the snowy wolf rebounded, its danger a sinewy, lupine outline in this cramped alley that whirled around to pounce again. This time, it hit him full on in the chest. Shaggy yellow hair whipped into a puddle. Two handgun bursts twanged uselessly into the cluttered soup of sky before that pistol went clattering. Flimsy neonate Protean grew talons that lashed, viciously, at the attacking muzzle; unable to deter it, they withdrew, making a final attempt to guard his vulnerable eyes and throat.

Oh, well. A solid 'A' for effort, anyway.

Dull claw oppressed each shoulder, ruffling the fabric there. Teeth gnashed inches from the flattened man's face. Whiskered lips pulled back into a wicked, bestial snarl, tongue frothing false rabies. Barking would've scared the whelp pissless, and this whole event was already troublesome enough, so Beckett settled for a blood-curdling growl. Silvery hair bristled in a ridge along the tall, sloped haunches. They shook.

"_You're not a very good shot,"_ he observed, a long, pointed gnarr. It was an influx too humanoid for any mutt or hellhound. The hired gun made a buckler of both elbows and hoped his jugular wouldn't be pulled out.

Laying there, terrified as he was, the young one's argument was mostly an inarticulate hodgepodge of grumbles and pup yaps. The wolf _assumed_ its basic message was something like: "please, Elder, don't tear my esophagus to shreds all over the pavement," but you couldn't really make that inference from a scream. His green irises were already rattling white, saliva speckling a twisted mouth. It wasn't the proudest image for their shared clan. Then again, was it ever?

Beckett placed one paw directly atop that trembling voice box and pushed. Two nails dented delicate skin. He gave the boy a final toothy rumble – just for good measure – before shrugging off his animal cloak and reassembling into the original body underneath. When all four padded feet were again fingers and toes, fur coat replaced by clothing, moon-white hanks thickened to black locks and the long snout retracted back to a long nose could business be done. (Well, 'business,' anyway; the lesser one was still jibbering on his own fish of a tongue.)

Beckett's hand grew back its knuckles, the skeleton of them wrapped around his prey's neck. He stood, hefting the sad whelp easily, then twisted around and slammed its back against a cement wall. It was a gesture so coolly calm it petrified.

"You broke my glasses," he remembered, a little annoyed, a mild complaint. Orange eyes frowned. Victim-to-be gurgled. It was a terrifying pout. "Unfortunately for you, they're the only thing your ill-planned ambush really damaged. Would you like to tell me who sent you on this suicidal mission?" Both palms were burning with sinister energy before his captive could either accept or decline. The fledgling's hair curled unnaturally; blond tangles began to singe gray. Fingernails, uselessly grasping his subjugator's forearm, went colorless and threatened to crumble.

Don't typecast Beckett; even well-traveled Gangrel enjoyed a good old-fashioned beating session, he was sure. But swatting gnats like the one dangling before him became unsatisfying very quickly. After so many decades spent sniffing out the unkind truths of their species, only truly spectacular (or spectacularly just) violence provided entertainment value, and even then it was a base gratification. Princes' schedules didn't rush him, per se… but personally, he preferred pondering sarcophagi to menacing stupid children. Tonight had been an irksome tangent rather than a longstanding hazard, anyway (at least for him). LaCroix's Childe was obviously in knots over it – her current assignment probably demanded he live long enough to follow through with an actual investigation – but nine-to-five brand anxiety from Camarilla officers was never unusual. When it came to exterminations, fast and relatively painless was by far a better route than slow, languorous and matted with gore.

Somewhere behind all that squalling and stumbling and _please-oh-please_-ing, the neonate seemed to be painting this whole botched affair as an accident. Beckett almost laughed at the obvious deception.

"Oh, was it? I see. You'll have to explain to me how one 'accidentally' assassinates. Or, by 'accident,' were you referring to missing your shot?" the professor asked, one eyebrow cocking. His failed killer wriggled like a trapped rat. Beckett broke his leg.

There was a great number of gasps and some suffocated weeping when the heel of his boot cracked bone. Crying, actually; tears included. When the child calmed down enough to speak, and the historian was no longer applying pressure to the meaty, bloodless wound he'd laid, their conversation finally began. Every sole touched the concrete, leather and rubber. But Beckett didn't let go of his neck.

"No, no – that's not… I didn't…" A wheezing puff; a protest half-heard. (It made the Elder impatient. That leg barely crunched at all.)

"Except it was," Beckett corrected, grimacing, more irritated than he was a moment ago. "And you did. Hate to rub salt in the wound, but I have to say: the whole thing was very badly-"

"Planned," he spat, and did so wetly. "Not planned; not like that. Fuck! We weren't gunning for you," was begged, a high-pitched sneeze of a sound when the clutch around his throat tightened. A thumb was currently crunching into the lymph node. Red welts like sunburn blistered around each unforgiving finger. "I swear, swear to God-! They didn't tell me anything; I didn't… I had no clue, no kind of clue-" The rapid-fire pleas were fractured by another callous, smothering squeeze.

_Oh, really?_

'_Gunning for a Prince's secretary, then?'_ The old vampire poached this notion in his head. It was a rather unexpected turn of events. Normally tips divulged by a flea-bitten, gagging child would be suspect, but Beckett could smell the unsightly reek of mortal fear on him; it was thick enough to believe his confessions, jumbled as they were. Anti-establishment spirit didn't matter greatly to an apolitical creature, but he imagined a certain Camarilla emissary might be interested. Ventrue of all ages tended to react poorly when told they were penned in someone's black list. It was the equivalent of informing a pep clique people existed who didn't worship their footsteps in _Pleasant Valley High_'s Astroturf; they always squealed like schoolgirls. And he imagined a skittish, crinkly Foreman might actually be frightened by the news someone specifically desired her dead.

Or did they? Well, after the poor girl came all this way merely to chat ancient history, the least Beckett could do was figure out which faction wanted her ashes compressed in a tin can.

"You're Sabbat, aren't you?" the Elder pondered.

Wretched boy in his knuckles was caught midway between weeping and paralysis. His Adam's apple gave an ungainly, wordless jiggle. Remembering one's superiors often tied the tongue, even if they were not particularly wrathful ones, and you could always count on the wrath of some. Beckett narrowed; these suspicions rolled the rotting autumn of his eyes. He was not, in any sense of the word, impressed.

"A rhetorical question, then," the man noted. "Too bad. I hate those."

The boy did not move, but shook – a sudden clattering of incisors one could take as a legitimate "yes." Almost disappointing. This culprit was terribly, terribly conventional, and convention often exasperated explorers for the potential it lost. You'd wonder if the modern Black Hand's recruitment bank could possibly get more unimaginative. Generally speaking, infant Gangrel had only so many options in choosing a protective organization these nights; this fact stood plain. Still, was a small grain of innovation every so often too much to ask of the generation?

_'Apparently so,'_ Beckett noted, answering his own question again, nose bridge wrinkling. It dragged out a sigh. The whole sorry state of twenty-first century vampirism made his temples ache. Choked by territory wars, underhanded dealing, narrow-minded politicians, brash children and – well – straightforward incompetence, the chances of some dashing young adventurer out there maturing to fill his shoes were looking slimmer all the time. He could recall a sandpapery old patron with unsatisfied eyes, sad storytelling and a blue gilet. _'Oh, my grandfather was right. It is an awful imposition to finally grow old.' _

But there were, fortunately, a few upsides to intellectual stagnation. At least the Kindred world couldn't afford to kill him off just yet.

"Anyway, I apologize for asking. Of course you're Sabbat." It was folly – and a waste of time that might otherwise be spent chasing down hearsay – to ask brick-headed footmen what their masters' battle plans were. Initiates like this one were lucky if they had a firm grasp upon _being_ a vampire. Mentally brutalized, physically fatigued, struggling with vague and incomplete accounts of the side-effects of undeath, shovelheads weren't altogether helpful prisoners. You couldn't expect actual _strategy_ from them – oh, no. Knowing this, Beckett skipped over probing for mission objectives. A better question was: "And your Ductus would be where? Whatever passes for an address. I could just as easily tear his or her location from the husk of your head, mind you, but this way is much less fatal," he tossed in for good measure. (Blatant lie, but those used to cult theatrics were more likely to understand ultimatums when they came wrapped in a big gory bow.)

When the child refused to betray his leaders – blood-bound patriot to a fault – Beckett shrugged, cut his losses, then threw him screaming onto a stretch of blacktop, and stepped on his neck until it popped. There was a burst beneath a boot heel. Embers wafted. A sizzling odor replaced the stink of fear.

The Gangrel dusted ash from his trench flaps.

How dramatic.

On a positive note: _'shouldn't be too difficult, though,' _rationale chimed in. Sleuth work was nothing new, whatever topic came a-calling; research had long ago become the foundation for life. With this knowledge to elevate him, Beckett picked up one of the dead(er) lad's shoes and scanned for any abnormalities. Athletic sneaker – shoddily built, generic make – with sagging stitches and weak circles rubbed into the plastic sole. Every tread had been ground flat. This was not telling on its lonesome, but there also appeared to be some strange, shimmering substance flecked into the material; small speckles gleaned against black dye. The wolf scratched at it with a nail, rubbing any loose traces between thumb and palm. Dirt stuck to his pads. Fingers. Whichever.

_'Coarse texture, sandy, not much in the way of silt… offshore plot, most likely. Looks to be of high quartz content. Lakefront, it is. And is this sawdust? Curious.' _To inspire or simply to confuse, it gave one last hint before falling silent: a peach scale wedged into a heat-crack.

The neonate had been sporting a cotton t-shirt. Beckett picked it up, sifting off the human residue, and sniffed. _'Smoke. Powerfully so.'_ But not of the nicotine variety. He took another whiff, skeptical, a thoughtful expression - someone akin to a purveyor of fine wines. Beckett would've hated this comparison, but, for all his insight and perception, the great detective couldn't see his own face. It was probably a good thing. _'Steel-work? No, too earthen. Lumberyard? Wrong city. Oak, perhaps?'_ There was a thick miasma of burning wood, a peaty, mossy flavor underscored by some subtle sweetness. Tree sap, possibly… or a slow-roast, watery meat.

_Ah-ha._

Delighting in what a wonderful invention the internet was – tomes were heavy, dusty and slow – Beckett conjured a list of local fish markets. There were only a handful, and he chose the functional smokehouse: an aged, chimneyed brick building in a grassy northwest pocket of homes. _'Senior citizens can howl to the moon just as much as they'd like about technological revolutions,'_ the old monster thought contentedly to himself, watching triangulation unfurl in the cup of his hand. Perhaps it was spoiling adolescent minds (no great waste, considering their starting condition); the Digital Age redeemed itself by making easy tasks easier, leaving more energy for genuinely difficult question-marks. Besides, Beckett believed anyone who honestly regarded the Dewey Decimal System as high art was either a librarian or an anal-retentive horse's ass. _'Satellite imaging beats crinkled atlases by candlelight any day of the week.'_

And, well, he would know.

Not feeling like another eight-mile pant, the scholar took a cab down I-90, hopping off into the red-light congestion of Lawrence Avenue. He paid the driver (who was too busy to notice anything unearthly about his passenger), stepped into shadow, and – after a quick privacy glance each way – melted back into a four-legged thing.

The salt scent of a salmon kitchen was potent, even afterhours; Beckett need only follow that heady smog of charcoal and freshwater flesh. It led him through a weedy construction site, where concrete pebbles spiked uncomfortably between lupine toes, then around one deadly-quiet public elementary school. He trotted neck-down across an unlit playground. Kine children confused the target odor momentarily; they always left a sticky fog of purified sugar, urine and _Ticonderoga No. 2_ shavings. It wafted away soon, however. Pink chalk on his toes, hopscotch and sack lunches, the hound pressed on for five more empty blocks. Unlit bungalows; sleeping families; insects in drooping, crated neighborhood trees. His only sentient encounter was with a pair of loose saddleback German Shepherds, who lurched antagonistically from the business of digging up water pipes before sensing something horribly wrong with this trespasser and permitting him pass.

Beckett didn't quite make it to the smokehouse, actually. He didn't need to. As luck would have it, this humble path led him straight past a certain condo complex, stamped condemned, nestled eerily in a seedy alleyway just meters away from that quaint lake locker.

Sturgeon spines, alewife fillets, shredded gills, shaven blades – it all blended with the odd supernatural musk next door, a bloody tang decidedly _not_ marine in nature. That was the cue. Abandoned, crumbling apartments were no strange sight in a _per capita_ metropolis called Big Shoulder City, but there was a trademark, festering seethe about the place that gave this Kindred pause. Fresh meat. Bleach. Burnt hair. _Mania_ – a rusted chain, mucusy smell, hide and decay. Makeshift metal shields were hammered over every window in the five-story place, some of them glassless. Gunpowder brewed the air around it. Dumpsters reeked of walleye bones that covered the toxic scent nearby. Nine-foot-high Safety and Sanitation Department chain-link stood around the building, corners stripped open by wire-cutters. There even appeared to be a homemade landmine hidden under several dandelion clods.

Oh, yes. This was most definitely the place.

Disrepair sat quietly in that overgrown lot. It was still early, about eleven; precursory scans suggested a small pack, mostly out hunting or raising amuck. From the outside, at least, a breach looked uncomplicated. Effortlessness normally made Beckett suspicious… but Sabbat were never well-celebrated for their thorough forethought. _'Neither are they usually praised for their defensive strategies,'_ the Gangrel recognized, unmoved by an unguarded lair. Any other supernatural hate-club, and he might've wondered if the residents had baited a clever trap.

Beckett scented the air, watched for any sign of movement, then ducked under a wrenched-up corner of fence. The metal latticework printed muddy hexagons onto a fur-covered hip. He loped around to the compound's rear entrance – careful to avoid tripping explosives – considered it, and clambered a rickety fire escape to floor three. Soft canine feet made no sound. Storming in and slaughtering everyone might've been all-in-a-day's-work for a Gangrel of his age and exceptional talent, but it was tasteless, and took more exertion than this Kindred desired to spend. He could, after all, conceivably be injured (again), and crossing blades with Sabbat was rarely worth shedding one's own blood. Honestly, Beckett had grown pretentious enough to consider himself "above" most fighting by the time he'd reached Elder status. Much cleaner to sneak in and pick them off one-by-one as necessary. Were there, in fact, watchmen posted inside, sauntering in like a cavalry rider may very well call the masses back home before he'd ample opportunity to snoop around.

An annoying prospect. He wedged his nose beneath an unhinged window and forked it open. It gave way with a quiet squeak and revealed blackness inside.

The wolf climbed through into a dark and empty room. It had once belonged to a young person, perhaps; off-white carpet mildewed on a wooden floor, single-size bedstead missing its mattress. The current tenants now used this space for storage. Cardboard boxes piled high in every corner; hastily-shed clothing was slung over available furniture. Ammunition crates sat on dresser drawers. Spent gold shotgun shells had been stacked along a shelf like trophies. Someone's lampshade – just the shade, for it lacked an actual bulb – leant against one wall. _'Lasombra decorators, I see,' _Beckett snidely supposed. Liquid plaster had dried in messy globules over a bullet-punctured stretch of paint. It smelled very disagreeable in here, as well… fishy haze from the smokehouse commingling with that nonspecific stench so often associated with this vicious, unfavorable sect. _'Like hyenas, ammonia and death.' _He had breathed it many times._  
_

The Gangrel hunkered, crept silently on his belly to the chamber door, and peered around. This quiet sleeping area opened into one long home hallway. At its closest end the stairwell, sanded timber, creaked downwards; at its far end, there was a strange, mechanical glow emanating from some small den into which he could not clearly see. Houseflies plinked against dim, naked light fixtures. Carpet squares of questionable coloration gathered footprints and telltale stains; washcloths had been stuffed into mouse holes. Four bedrooms were closed along this claustrophobic hall. He could see were rug fibers had been ripped from that squeaky flight: two floors overhead, three below.

No need to wander back down. Beckett edged farther out and twisted his thick, maned neck towards that nondescript bloom at the corridor's nose. It was a dull, static-laced hum - past an uninteresting set of dorms, around a corner, through a peeling threshold. He listened closely, left ear twitching. His current position still didn't grant a definitive glimpse of what lay in wait there. _'A computer of some sort?'_ Yes, that sounded right. Judging from the missing beeps and mouse-clicks, it was idling. The scholar slid another foot forward, craning for a quick peek. Everything led to what probably used to be someone's studio in its glory days, a plain chamber, old book must wafting beneath carrion… and, sure enough, there was a pixel blue wash across the pinkish rug.

Beckett rather wanted to know what the _My Documents_ bin of a Sabbat terrorist's hard drive looked like. He darted across the hallway, pressed his body against a far wall, and slunk forth, careful to keep claws from tapping floorboards.

This animal guise would have to be shed eventually; navigating browsers sans thumbs was a real pain. For now, however, he crept on four digitigrade legs, tail sunk low. Three more cautious steps and a human shadow twitched – the toes of a barefoot Priestess. They were five in count, female, and connected to an ankle that dangled over a wilting red sofa's edge. Beneath the pervading aroma of mollusks, Beckett picked her scent clearly from here: varnish, mold, road-rash, rubber and cheap nail polish. Not quite Brujah. Not quite Gangrel. Certainly not Lasombra or Tzimisce. And a hair's width off from Ravnos neonate, provided he could actually recall what one smelled like. _'Madam Ringleader would be a Malkavian, wouldn't she?' _

The Portage Park mistress was currently sprawled horizontally across a pathetic couch like a seer on a divan, one full yard of fawn hair sprawled over an armrest. She looked seventeen, all elbows and over-the-counter antihistamines. She reeked of vampire adolescence – a decade or so from ancilla, perhaps – roundabout, he imagined, that brusque Angeleno corporal's age.

_Bah._ No one else was home. Best to just bull's-rush in and mince the Childe to pieces.

Beckett stood his prey up with loud sigh, waited until the apprehensive girl was dumbly facing him through a veil of darkness, and leapt for her pallid strand of throat.

The muzzle hit first - tremor bite, White Shark horsepower. Her vision was swallowed by two hundred pounds of great silvery beast lunging through the lightless condominium, opportunity for nothing but panic. It made contact long before any possible defense. His fangs slid deeply into the expanse of neck, burrowing straight to blood-flow. The wolf clenched them immediately. Skin stripped away from muscle in distressed ribbons, caught in his teeth; when she shook him off, there was little left to the Priestess's gullet. Tubes dangled, a flood of crimson running down her loose pastel blouse. The shaken creature stood because shock let her do nothing else – jaw wagging, cords tangling into a lacey collar. She stared at the intruder crouched menacingly in the only exit.

_'That knocked a little life out of her,_' Beckett guessed, watching horror fizzle to furious insanity in opaque eyes. Black Hand Malkavians were not generally felled quite as easily as street whelps, however. The moment her adversary's paws touched solid ground, upending the couch, she raged into frenzy and pounced after him. They struck carpet in a tangle of limbs and slashing claws.

Typical. One couldn't ask for the time without sending antitribu madmen into conniption fits, let alone access their plans (if one could even refer to Sabbat activity as "planned"). _'Spectacular juggernauts, but poor tacticians,'_ he noted, struggling to keep his own windpipe out of harm's way. Beckett almost lost her rapid fist blows to an Obfuscate vapor; he felt four wild knuckles dig thoughtlessly into his abdomen, eliciting a nasal yelp from the dog. This woman was, admittedly, fast. She gouged knuckles and used her hard points. Knees, caps, ball-and-sockets; the Gangrel retaliated by clamping unforgiving jaws upon one milky forearm. Scarlet slithered between molars and leaked from his jowls.

Snarling, she flipped them over in order to separate from the wolf, grabbing feverishly for an improvised cudgel. Beckett launched off a wall to avoid being whipped into it. Blood dribbled from his elongated mouth. A lip of the television monitor she swung nearly caught him – would've likely shattered his mammalian ribcage – but instead glanced off a recliner leg and splintered. Tiny glass shards exploded to _tink! _off his husky coat. A handful ricocheted deep, nipped the creature's lean forelegs, but they were mostly ignored.

_'Thank goodness fair lady Sabbat went for the TV instead of the PC,'_ was all that occurred to him on this subject. He hopped a patch of sharp bits and shivered the others away.

Having humored enough of these games for tonight, the historian soaked up a final crunchy kick, dove beneath her, and rose bipedal. True to Malkavian form (as if one needed proof those poor children were bonkers), the less-monstrous shape seemed to encourage this Priestess. Who knew with their lot? Perhaps she thought his power reserves were draining; perhaps she simply wasn't a fan of dogs. Either way, the daffy girl bared her not-so-pearly whites and sprung for his chest. He could have dodged it – probably. But there was no call for stunts or hysterics at this late point of their scrape.

A well-placed bolt hurled her heart-first into the ground with bone-snapping force. It was an anvil of energy; impossible, intangible weight pressed down against his attacker's spine, slamming the Beast halfway out of her, making a madwoman squirm like a tweezed beetle. He compressed her until cruor burbled from every orifice. And – a ruthless encore for this Cainite comedy of errors – cauldron boiled whatever stuffing was left.

Unnecessary? Most assuredly. But Beckett felt everyone was entitled to a little shameless overkill once in a blue moon.

He listened in the dripping, simmering dark for a few moments, waiting for backup, for noises downstairs. Cartilage popped on the diamond-print rug. No one else came.

'_That should about do it,' _the survivor confirmed, stepping gingerly over a gruesome puddle of cinders and situating himself at her purring computer. Business settled, he shook the screensaver away and began happily thumbing through archives. There was enough information to keep him snickering away all night. Likely some interesting comments on the ambush this evening, as well. Speaking of, he probably ought to see about ringing up LaCroix's patsy before her linty head imploded.

'_She can wait a few more minutes,' _Beckett decided, plucked a flash drive from his coat pocket, and stole everything worth learning.


	46. The Turtan's Camp

**The Turtan's Camp**

Serena could tell, from the short time they'd spent together, that Mr. Beckett was not a man for block schedules. The Gangrel had accrued a reputation for slinking in and out of Domains on personal whims, always following casework, functioning without regard to societal constraints or Camarilla datebooks. So she was not altogether surprised when, scarce seconds after a failed assassination in downtown Chicago, he dashed off into darkness with little more than five unrevealing words.

Still, understanding this: it would be nice if someone bought the man a damn beeper.

There seemed to be no getting in touch that evening. Ms. Woeburne called his cell at least four times with no results, left two messages, then finally gave up on contacting Beckett. The agent supposed worrying over an Elder's safety was pointless – particularly because, if her concerns were legit, there was absolutely nothing some Ventrue fledgling could do about it, anyway – but couldn't resist. She clipped back to The Drake and waited for him to phone her.

Waiting was not one of Ms. Woeburne's favorites.

Beckett had left her standing there without a clue as to what he expected; should she stay put and await his return, trot back to deluxe suite safety, or (God forefend) follow him? Serena dearly hoped he hadn't intended on that last one. It was not an option, considering she'd missed his expeditious exit; there'd be no tailing after shadows or lingering scents at this point. Besides that: Sebastian's prudent Childe was not very keen on the prospect of charging into unidentified peril equipped with a dainty brown skirt in lieu of her holster. So, having nothing else to do, she grew tired of loitering about and returned to her hotel.

Ms. Woeburne remained incredibly restless. She took a quick shower – one always needed a scrub after assassinations, successful or not – then re-dressed and headed over to the executive lounge. It had been locked overnight, but that was easily remedied; a passing floor monitor happily opened it for his curt, clean, oddly persuasive guest. So it happened that Serena, laptop under one arm, plunked down in a comfortable armchair and fretted. She'd known this damn lobby was a better idea than midnight wandering with neither hide-nor-hair of destination. The Ventrue wiped away a damp, sullen fork of mousy hair and pinned it behind one leg of her glasses.

Starved for some semblance of direction, Ms. Woeburne racked her mind for anything she ought to be doing. Nothing practical dawned. Normally free time, a precious commodity, should be relished – spent practicing in shooting ranges or catching up on reading or… well, to be honest, that was about it. She didn't enjoy enough leisure to think up alternatives beforehand. Annoyingly enough, the Foreman's staple hobby from life was of little use tonight; minds recently fired at were not, she found, excellent at metaphor appreciation. There wasn't even anyone to call. Her Sire wasn't conversational in his best moods, and almost certainly still felt wroth with her; she hadn't heard from him once since departing, nor from his minions who occasionally kept tabs. And anyway, it would've been a silly proposition. One didn't ring Sebastian LaCroix for a friendly chat.

That exhausted her list of personal contacts, really. Serena supposed it was times like these having friends might have been a useful diversion.

Maybe she should've kept Jeanette Voerman's number around, just on the off-chance. Her dignity bristled. _'Oh, no – we are not nearly that desperate yet.' _Too bad Lily decided to be a moon-eyed, ignorant, traitorous Free-State whore. Otherwise, she'd been a nice girl. Maybe Serena ought to pop some buttons, stop combing her mane and start strutting around wearing cheap leather, lose her 'g's and gain some middle-man proverbs. Maybe she ought to swap the government seat for a gat with a macho name and call it a night! They'd surely come flocking to her side then. _Hah. Hah-hah!_

_Sigh_.

As satisfying as mocking her dissenters was, she'd overdone it, and worn the humor out. Making fun of Anarch hitmen was gradually becoming less amusing and more like kicking a dead dog. Too appropriate a simile for the Free-State, perhaps; Serena noted it with some tiredness and some disappointment as she swiped another disobedient lock behind one ear. (Maintenance trim soon. It was starting to shag around both shoulders and curl.)

No use. There was no use worrying over extracurriculars - things that didn't matter so much, and never had, working in the shadow of grave affairs. She'd find something else to do until summoned back to Los Angeles, and then business as usual. Friends were a pleasant luxury, Ms. Woeburne decided, but fundamentally unnecessary. Especially for serious people. And, despite her recent fumblings, Serena assiduously believed she was an excellent example of a Serious Person.

She did what needed doing. She always kept deadlines, was painstakingly discreet, and staunchly reliable. She never let herself be distracted. She could see that it gets done.

Handsome but not attractive; comely but not charming; pleasing but not pretty; well-shaped but not winsome. These were the promises carving good corporals from fine wood. That humility was occasionally admirable made it no less useless for self-assessment; surely Mr. LaCroix would not keep his Childe alive, you know, had the woman's foibles overshadowed her successes. Social pangs would detract from this upstanding quality of service. Besides – once his sarcophagus entanglement was over, Ms. Woeburne assumed Sebastian would be sending her back to London, anyway. '_Provided Roderick manages to keep the property standing until I return.'_

She pulled out her cellular phone, dialed without overthinking, and waited for an answer.

"_This is the LaCroix Residency, Hendon Estates. How may I-"_

"Roderick," Serena cut him off, a stale introduction by a pinching, recognized voice. Somber red hair slicks over butler collars were images that belonged to Roderick Dunn, and though the officer could not tell you his hometown or eye color, these servant clichés stuck. No small talk or niceties padded their relationship. Nerves wound tightly, shoe heel tapping imperial carpet, she was only moderately gratified he had not simply said _hello_. "This is Ms. Woeburne. I am calling to check-in."

Perhaps anxiety tinged the signature bite of his superior's voice; perhaps he had simply settled into a more proficient routine in her absence. Either way, the greeting seemed to confuse him. Silence hung as Dunn flipped through a dozen possible reasons the Prince's Childe might be ringing headquarters – whose inquiry had been placed – what significance tonight held. His findings must have been inconclusive. _"I… I see. We are fine here. Did Mr. LaCroix request the house messages? Give me a moment; I'll go knock on Shauna's-"_

"No," she lanced in – and it was only at this moment Serena realized how unprecedented such a call was, how strange it would've seemed to a lad she'd lectured then screened, how strangled she must have sounded. The Ventrue shifted in her seat. She watched someone's light huff out in a high-rise across the street. She glimpsed the vague shapes of two people embracing one apartment below and tried not to notice, looked quickly away. This existence did not stifle all social precepts or norms. It was still an odd dance in modesty and old embarrassments. And that observation tolled even truer as Sebastian's bailiff held the receiver to one ear while her opposite hand scratched a chilly collarbone. "No, no. This is only a look-over. I wanted to make sure everything was going all right."

"_Well… yes. Yes, Ms. Woeburne," _he said – called her _Ms._ – because it's what she called herself. Serena wondered how much had shifted for him in these past harrowing months. She wondered how things had shifted for her. It seemed so long ago they had coldly parted ways at that foreboding doorstep, spanning several cities and unshared trials, though the senior creature knew it was not. How to measure progress if not in time? Had she, too, sounded just like this when her Sire phoned for instruction-giving and quarterly reports? Does she yet? _"Everything's running as usual. Everything's… fine."_

"Oh. That's encouraging. Excellent. Fine."

It is never _good_ with Ventrue; it is always _fine_.

His query was cautious enough that hers forgot to be. New competence forced out molting, too-tight skin; it freed nest space for another generation, and gave elders room to grow taller. One more light winked out through that wall of lucid glass. The silhouette couple had shut their windows. His terseness struck her bizarrely. _"Is there anything else I can do for you?"_

"No. That's, ah – that's adequate. Thank you," she capped – authoritative, sharp, with purpose that did not precisely exist. "Good night."

There was nothing else she could think of to say. They hung up.

The Foreman waited a few moments with telephone in hand. There was really no reason to worry about Roderick, she supposed; everything sounded under control, wound tightly, functional as a fresh bedspring. Yet she did worry. Their conversation - and its revelation that Hendon apparently no longer trembled without her - left Ms. Woeburne feeling odd. Uncomfortable emotions, these: nonplussed, caught off-guard, and more than a little unneeded. She blinked it off. She sat.

She hoped Beckett was all right.

And, of course – just to underline the fact Serena was either a foot-soldier prophet or a terminal worrywart – her phone rang. It had been three hours since scholar and secretary last left Drake Hotel.

"Beckett, is that you? Where are you? Is everything OK?" stampeded out before he could get a salutation in.

"_Yes, none of your business, and yes," _the man answered, a succinct and good-natured checklist. Blueblood nerves required maps and coordinates before they'd relax, not vague hints, but his saying so at least kept her from spiraling towards panic. He sounded amiable _–_ a bit tired, perhaps, but certainly not injured, muffled or badly drained. The Gangrel was neither in immediate danger nor overly fazed by whatever he'd called to tell her. She quietly breathed out relief. _"I'm well enough, but I thought you might appreciate some closure on tonight, young as you are. First, tell me: are you at your hotel? And you can forgo zinging back the 'none of your business.' Tempting as it is. I've got a lot of news to pass along."_

"I am," the corporal chirped back. Her mouth formed around a smile. She wouldn't have tossed a smart remark in Beckett's face, of course, but that didn't mean the Ventrue hadn't thought it.

"_Oh, good. You'll probably want to stay inside. Preferably away from any windows."_

Serena was up, laptop sagging under one arm, and a full lounge-length from the glass within two seconds.

Perhaps her business partner heard his client scramble – God forbid those orange eyes were looming outside again; Ms. Woeburne double-checked the staff doors – or maybe he was just perceptive. Regardless, Beckett continued: _"I hope I didn't scare you. Either way, you should know a few things. Important things; things that should be heeded by people like you. To begin with: the gunman we crossed this evening, talented as he wasn't, hadn't been expecting me."_

Something like a fist folded in her throat. "_What_?"

_"That was my reaction, too." _A tweaked brow, an inside joke. A heartbeat, a cold sweat._ "It goes to show me for guessing at the motives of headhunters, I suppose. Granted, it wouldn't really be correct to say they're after your head. The assassination, poorly-executed as it was… hmph! 'Executed.' But I digress: whatever it was had very little to do with you or I, in fact, and neither of our heads. Your death would have only been a means to an end. From what I've turned up, the sharpshooter was hoping to close his grubby paws around those CDs you passed along when we first met. Do you remember?"_

"Of course I remember," the woman shot back with more acid than intended. Normal conditions would've froze Serena solid for snapping at the infamous Beckett, but knowing someone wanted (or didn't mind) you dead was a mite distracting. She was already out of the public room and heading swiftly for her quarters. He'd made it clear their prime objective wasn't murdering a Prince-Childe – a lot of bloody good that did the Foreman. Ms. Woeburne seriously doubted her Gangrel associate left a note kindly explaining still no longer possessed that intel.

And do you know, a report like that one was bound to make smart public officers just the tiniest bit tense. Or more than tense. Crazy, actually. Beckett seemed to understand, though, and pressed on as though nothing untoward had passed between them.

"_Your perpetrators are Sabbat,"_ he said, _"and they apparently weren't aware of my involvement in this sarcophagus business. I doubt it would have deterred them for very long, however. They aren't exactly prudent. Strange for them to be so interested in Assyrian burial art as to make an attempt on a Prince's progeny, though; I wonder if someone confused them." _ Here a single, displeased snicker fell. _"As if that's difficult. You'd be more concerned, I'd think, with the possibility someone deliberately confused them. Could an enemy have baited the wolves, young one? I imagine you have your share of them, being who you are. If not, I fear that the Sabbat have managed to become even more paranoid than their last attempt on my contacts' lives."_

Serena bit her lip, swallowed, and ran down the black list of those who might profit from her extinction. It was shorter than she expected.

Did the local Kuei-jin have any reason to kill her?

'_I don't even know if they're aware I exist.'_

Did Therese Voerman have any reason to kill her?

'_She's likely to be angry with me when-and-if Jeanette mentions our little meeting. But… it couldn't be. The woman has Princehood aspirations; she wouldn't make such a brazen move now, not against anyone, save perhaps Bertram Tung or her own sister. Voerman is much too afraid of Sebastian.'_

Did Nines Rodriguez have any reason to kill her?

'_Assuming he needs one. No, not particularly. Not at the moment.'_

What about Isaac Abrams?

'_Baron Hollywood would just send his hound in that case, wouldn't he? Jive.'_

…Lily?

'_As if. Even she isn't stupid enough to tumble into bed with the Sabbat.'_

Perhaps this was an intra-faction coup by a colleague, then - some sharp-tack badge like Duncan Leslie, Thomas Genovese, Maribeth Gutierrez? Yes, Maribeth! It was common knowledge that ambitioner had her calculating eye on the position of Seneschal; it was even more obvious she viewed their superior's protégé with jealousy and grudging obedience since Ms. Woeburne arrived in Los Angeles.

'_It's my best prospect so far, but… no, how could that be?'_

None of these individuals had been told of the sarcophagus dig - not to her knowledge, which tended to be incomplete, but rarely wrong. Everything Ankaran was a classified case, even by Sebastian's standards; were her facts accurate and up-to-date (they were always accurate and up-to-date), the only pertinent data-holders were high-ranking Giovanni, their research teams, and Mr. LaCroix. Serena wouldn't even taste the possibility he had been responsible. Too ghastly, too gristly a scenario to let in; thoughts that like were hideous, toxic, cannibalistic, more dangerous to a loyalist than actual betrayals were. Too impossible. She expunged it before a what-if fear could skip up to knock. And the suggestion was impractical, besides. Beckett had been very clear: their assailants' weren't aiming for kills, bragging rights or revenge, but two precious company-stamped CDs. It was a tactical choice, a logic-driven theft. The Prince and his gallery of henchmen had no need to steal copies they already owned. No, it could not have been any of them.

"I don't think so," Ms. Woeburne told him. It was mostly truth, a semi-sturdy picture. Yet she had gnawed her bottom lip into raw, stinging, bloody submission by the lock of her bedroom door.

"_It's just speculation on my behalf at this point,"_ he assured, but sounded skeptical._ "You would know best, I suppose."_

"As difficult as it is for someone like me: I try to never assume that," Serena admitted, a wry thing to say, dryer than this grimace that found its way across her ashen face. The historian chuckled his approval. She couldn't determine if his previous statement had been facetious or not, but her comment had amused him; the Foreman logged Beckett's fondness for self-depreciating humor. How fortunate that self-depreciation was her forte.

"_Excellent. Maybe you just might live, then."_

"I can only hope so." Bolted inside to satisfaction, Ms. Woeburne bounced heavily onto her mattress. Decorative throw pillows tumbled off and were abandoned on the shag rug. The Ventrue kicked off both those riding boots - those colonial, horse-kicking, people-stomping heels. "How did you come to find out about all of this, if I may ask?"

"_I have their C drive,"_ he announced, and Serena could hear the self-gratification. She gleaned he was likely thumbing through a sheaf of Sabbat archives this very moment. God only knew filled up the Black Hand's disk space.

"Oh. Of course. I see." Not an ingenious comment, but the only one. Better not to imagine how he came to be in possession of such a thing.

"_Would you like to hear something else interesting?"_ (It was not as if Ms. Woeburne would decline.)_ "Seems your enemies have other ventures keeping them busy – too busy to hire quality sharpshooters, obviously. But I'm being snide."_ She could hear two decisive mouse-clicks beneath his mildly-invested sigh. _"At present, I'm ruffling through a Ductus's e-mail - a dreary task if I've ever done one - and I'm turning up correspondence between this pack and one in Compton. That's infringing on your territory, if I'm not mistaken. For being, by and large, savages, they do have quite a network, don't they?"_

"You're kidding," she remarked – not an honest accusation Beckett was jerking her chain, for though sly, he'd been straightforward – but unable to deny it. Her legs, calves twitching in their newfound freedom, crossed atop the bed, rumpling all its pastel yellow. Ugly, garish quilt scratched like ants, but now really wasn't a time to criticize bedclothes. "What does it say? Are the messages about what happened tonight - the shooting, I mean?" (There was no attractive way to keep the meaning intact.)

"_They regard infrastructure, actually. __Club Chicago involved themselves in the mess shortly after your flight, which appears to be an order filtered down from LA's Archbishop. In addition to requesting the Sarcophagus CDs, he or she also mentioned a West Coast arrangement. Seems that your region's neighborhood pack – in so many charming misspellings – is planning a series of riots in the city,"_ Beckett said, no care for political correctness, brief about the notion._ "This normally wouldn't merit my attention, but I thought it might tweak yours. It would seem their longterm intent, beyond causing havoc and blowing up park districts, is to shoulder blame upon the Anarch Party. It's unusual behavior for a cult of chronic attention-seekers, but they have a bone to pick. Something about a raid, a warehouse, and 'siccing the fathers' puppets on each others' throats.' That's put 'sicking' with a 'k,' by the way. At the very least they could proofread their melodrama. Still worth making a note about, though, wouldn't you say?"_

Another chorus line of demands danced up Serena's throat. "_What_? Why would they? What would they stand to gain?" she asked unhappily, the conspiracy hemisphere of her brain whirling. It was entirely too much Jyhad for one day. Ms. Woeburne's brow dented; her headache, once dull, turned vicious. "I'm sorry, really, but I don't understand. It's not as if uprisings surprise me," said a surprisingly schooled, cool-headed voice that sounded a lot like her own. Sickness as spelled with a _k_ was tangling pedigree guts into ghoulish knots. The Ventrue cleared her throat to keep it calm. "And why would they? Sabbat aren't shy creatures, about their ideals or their slaughter. _That's_ what surprises me. They're generally all too proud to take responsibility for raising hell. Los Angeles's packs have no love for our Anarchs, but…" The scowl slanted deeper. Her plotting factory had fired up its heavy-duty gears, a metal fact refinery, steel chimneys pouring steam. "I'll need more information before I can comment on this," was all she could really commit to, pitch prickly and body exhausted. Anxious digits plucked at her tasteless covers. Serena exhaled. "Beckett, could you forward these messages to me, please?"

"_Naturally, young one. I've even got it all laid out for you. As I said, political conniving doesn't really concern me. But I felt your ears might be pricked by this tour de force." _A minute's pause. Serena thought she heard fingertips flittering over keys. _"And done. I hope it's of use. You can take full credit for the discovery, by the way… perhaps Prince LaCroix will give you a promotion." _

"Oh, I strongly doubt that." The grin that wrenched its way along Ms. Woeburne's teeth was bittersweet and sore. "But thank you."

"_Not at all. Frankly, I don't care what you choose to do with it,"_ the scholar declared, a touch indignant._ "We wouldn't want some Nosferatu busybody whispering that Beckett was helping the Camarilla, would we? What would people say?"_

"They won't find out from me," she promised, too worn for a friendly snigger. _'That's perfect. If being shot at wasn't enough, now I have to deal with this nonsense. Grand. Just fucking peachy.' _The Ventrue massaged her scalp, head lagging forward on throbbing muscle. A serious migraine was coming on. She couldn't think about it any longer. "All the same, this is a very big favor, Professor. You have my gratitude, however little that amounts to. Is there anything I can do for you before I leave Chicago?" Ragged and bad-tempered as Serena was at present, she meant this sincerely. It wasn't often that fellow Kindred were nice to her – even condescendingly so – and one could never take apolitical courtesy for granted in vampiric society.

"_If there were, I think I would be in very dire straits, indeed. No offense intended."_ He didn't leave her enough air time to 'none taken.' _"But you really oughtn't leave just yet, if you've any choice in the matter. I'm still curious about this whole Sabbat ordeal. The Free-State can sink or swim as far as I am concerned, but there are other elements at play, more relevant to our interests. Specifically, I'd like to find out why at least two packs believe your Prince's pet project is worth so much hassle. While you'll certainly need to exercise caution – they've made it no secret killing you isn't out of the question – why not extend your stay a few weeks? It would turn out beneficial for you, I imagine… being nearby when I puzzle this out."_

"I, ah – I don't know," the Foreman stuttered, caught unprepared by his sudden request. "I'm not sure. Maybe. I'll have to speak with Prince LaCroix before promising anything long-term. Though I've got a hunch he'll call me back if I send along these documents. When I do," she amended, chomping her stupid tongue, a dreadful Freudian slip. Nowhere to go but onward at this point, though. "Perhaps I can arrange for a leave of-"

_"If the both of you withdraw, I might begin to think you're not serious about archeology,"_ Beckett pouted. Despite his implications and the lofty tone they took, Serena sensed the man was absolutely serious.

Ms. Woeburne was not so young as to mistake a barefaced warning for harmless whining. "I understand," she said. Both her hands were commendably still. "I'll be in touch."

With that exchange, the Ventrue politely bid him goodnight and hung up.

It was two o'clock in the morning. Outside, Drake's hallways were silent, save the soft shuffles of housekeepers behind their squeaky carts. Inside, the complementary air conditioning kept Serena ten degrees below comfortable. Both socked feet, crossed upon the mattress, were growing frosty. She peeled the starchy garments off and flung them across her room, sliding beneath a corner of sheet. Unruly bangs stumbled over her forehead. The Foreman surrendered without a fight, unable to care much about bodily feelings with so many mental ones; she tilted her pounding skull back until it thumped against indifferent, lumpy wallpaper, checkered old-fashioned gold. A curt, stressed breath pushed through her short nose. Tonight was still young, Ms. Woeburne realized, but damn if sleep did not sound like a spectacular idea.

What to do about this white elephant?

She'd found a haven for now, but Serena knew safety was transitory for those who played Jyhad. Identifying her adversaries was a marginal relief. Sabbat were rancorous, slavering and frightening in brute force - but they were too disorganized, too passionate to threaten one's existence the same way an unfeeling Ventrue corporal could. Ventrue did not scatter when modus operandi went amuck. Then again, a stoic Ventrue marksman would not have missed. Fortunately for Ms. Woeburne, the Sabbat did not recruit many these nights. A gaggle of meathead Gangrel speckled by the occasional low-grade Lasombra she could handle. Ignorant Caitiff she could handle. The thought of tangling with Tzimisce flesh-crafters gave her pause, but nothing demanded things deteriorate to such a gory point. There was a very basic solution to the challenge: this sticky situation would just have to resolve itself before anyone dangerous became involved.

She had to tell Sebastian. There was no question in Serena's mind: had to, must, certainly so. But the agent also realized _Chicago: Recruit Beckett_ was an assignment she'd complete alone if there was any hope of salvaging her company reputation; cowering home beforehand would surely be a sign of inadequacy to Mr. LaCroix. Yet there was no sure way to deliver this information, not without booking her flight back to California. And if she did, he was certain to rein her in; whether the impetus was affection or only a clever move to secure his personal officer did not matter greatly. The Prince's Childe felt she'd never reach a satisfactory answer to this quandary. What _did_ matter was preserving a shred of her aptitude in those judgmental Siberian eyes. Insults and punitive palm-slap from one's Sire stung intensely, but they were nothing compared to being dismissed, deregulated, _let-go _to some pathetic station where stumbles would never bee seen by him. Sebastian was a professional at the art of deriding those who kowtowed to him. She could not risk another disappointment. Not now, not presently, not for a good long time.

Serena realized she was not a tide-changer; she graciously accepted the menial tasks, and carried them out with utmost fealty. But she could not be written off as a bungling failure. There was no significant money to sweeten her lineage, and _Woeburne_ owned no family crest, thriving business or prestigious names. Service was all the young Ventrue had. She could not return to her Sire with empty hands and unearned pardon. She would not.

So what, then? This could not go unchecked until it felt convenient to tell him; Sabbat intentions often petered out before fruition, true, but permitting them chug along unpoliced was jeopardizing the city itself. Ms. Woeburne had to tell _someone_. And she could not waste her firsthand reports with useless appeals. What this operative required was a partner with the strength of position to respond – who could hold down their home fort until Beckett decided she was worth it – who would not gain from alerting Mr. LaCroix, and one whom she could trust.

'_Well, three out of four,' _Serena settled, hefted her laptop onto her thighs, and plunked out a cryptic e-mail to Baron LA.

**Sender: S. Woeburne  
Subject: Call Me Immediately**

**I'd rather not have your number on my outgoing history.**

**-W**

She closed the computer, slid it aside, and brainlessly watched fifty-five minutes of _Fox News_ on a cramped TV before her cell rang.

"_You know, I think I'm pretty used to cryptic Camarilla shit by now, but I've got to hand it to you. This is just a little suspicious, Woeburne,"_ the Brujah began, sounding much less intrigued than Serena hoped. He was guarded – dubious, confrontational and perhaps a little angry. It gave LaCroix's intermediary pause. _"So that said, I hope you thought about it, and I hope you realize: you got about one inch of fuck-up left before I'm done. What the hell do you want?"_

Not exactly encouraging, but at least the Baron answered his telephone; Patricians and Rabble had frictitious relationships, even on excellent days, and this day was not. Maybe Rodriguez was still cross about her extraordinarily rude hang-up upon the last occasion they spoke. This thought almost pleased Serena before she remembered there were more important matters to discuss, and sobered up straight away.

_Tremendous_. Sore Anarchs were rarely cooperative Anarchs; unfriendly accusations and thuggish antagonism were exactly what shot-at Ventrue needed at a foggy three AM.

"I'm about to tell you, but do me a favor. Please don't fight with me. There's a good deal I have to get through, and to be frank, I'm really not in the mood," she informed him. It was a cool salutation. Borderline resentment tangled with forced professionalism, but no outright hostility, and no ungracious jabs tonight. Her stare was tourmaline and bored flatly through a ridiculous-looking anchorman on the screen. She didn't want to picture how Rodriguez must've looked at present. Folded arms, surly expression, belligerent stance, partisan propaganda; it was a wearisome image, one Serena did not enjoy thinking about, and did not like to see.

The Ventrue listened. Before casting another card on this table, she had to be very sure all her loops were closed. There could be no last-minute tripping or double-backs. Not like July the Twenty-Sixth; not this time. These manipulations were relatively straightforward – mutually beneficial – but you did not expose your seams to rivals, even when they had the potential to help.

His mistrust clicked neatly into place. _"And I wasn't playing. Again: what do you want?"_

She must have sounded exactly like this that day in the park. _What do you want? There has to be something. What could you possibly get from me? _He might have been standing at the lip of a bridge with a bite of smoke, an unwelcoming wind; she could have tried to cut bargains with some awful, audible smile on her face, appeal that threatened to rip out a throat. Traffic rumbled outside. It was an irony that made Serena press into her forehead with her thumbs.

And yet everything the Foreman said was true: Ms. Woeburne had little time, almost none for quibbling with radicals, even less for digging at what personally hurt. She related recent events to him quickly and dispassionately, detailing the Sabbat stratagem against LA as thoroughly as her current figures allowed. The clarity of urgent affairs overwrote Serena's spite - but though her tones were exaggerated tones, their distress was authentic, something to believe. Nines did not interrupt her. The frown on his face was tangible enough to be heard; bruised lips, disbanded aggression, hate in reserve. She did not break from her account to ask for opinions. Only an idiot would've dial-toned a testimony like this.

And as frequently as the Anarch was reduced to such a label, the corporal recognized it was unfair. Scholar he was not, but Rodriguez had proven smarter than was healthy for a Brujah, a base captain with commander aims. It was a safe assumption they would get him killed someday. In the meantime, though, they were causing Los Angeles a great deal of trouble, and might keep this red spot in-check.

"_Don't get me wrong,"_ the man finally said, speaking slowly. He didn't protest until Ms. Woeburne was finished. The line hung dead between them for some time. _ "It's not as if I expect you're capable of concocting bullshit of this magnitude. But what reassurance do I have that this isn't another dose of 'armistice?' I don't give a fuck whether you knew it going in or not. You worked us over last time. You promised pacifism and you brought a firefight. You put me in a place I stood to get killed."_

"The Society of Leopold did. They have nothing to do with me, nor with us; you know that perfectly well. And you also know what else I did there for you," Serena reminded him - a stiff, brave, humbling thing to say.

There was another pause. In her cluttered room of Drake Hotel, on her obtuse television, a demeaning celebrity exposé prattled away. Ash Rivers hovered dismissively before a so-called journalist, grudgingly handsome; she watched him shrug, mumble, fling a handful of excuses to send overly made-up gossip girls clacking in the opposite direction. Count on Toreador to get a postmortem adrenaline rush from tempting Masquerade violation on cable network. Ms. Woeburne's jaw clenched.

"I'll send along my sources once we're done here," she began when he did not argue, and did not say no. "But I didn't think you'd listen without discussing this directly. The Sabbat are a nuisance to us all. You can choose not to believe me and ignore my counsel, I suppose, but understand that the consequences of doing so are yours."

"_How did you find out about this?"_

"They tried to kill me."

_Silence. Grunt. _ She could hear him considering, defenses at firing range, a brooding decision on the other side of the line.

"I don't speak Neanderthal, Mr. Rodriguez."

"_Why are you telling me this?" _the Brujah demanded, squinting, divided. It was an expression of poor relations. Unsurprising; direct or not, she had placed him in an extremely awkward situation with no advance warning, and Ventrue bargains never came without dangerous strings. Making the call between accepting good faith from a rival soldier and overlooking evidence like this was not simple. That he had not immediately slammed down the phone indicated a willingness, though; it opened a bridge to leeway – to further investigation – but it was a thin one, and built of wicker sticks. Not a simple call, ceasefires; not a painless peace. She was torn between the fright of a laissez-faire sneer and the same teeth lit in their own fear, terrible injury, swallowing the black stuff behind them, trying not to die. No, nothing simple. Nothing painless at all. _"What's in it for you? Don't tell me you've had a change of heart. I understand what you're offering wasn't easy to come by. And I appreciate the shit you undoubtedly slogged through to get it. But _you_ have to understand that no matter how sincere your concerns might be – and I got no real reason to think they're anything but crooked – at the end of the day, you're still a Prince's Childe. I can't just get over that. Nobody gets over that. If you expect me to trust your word, Cam, you're going to have to start being honest with me on more fronts than your own." _

Careful. _Careful_.

"I don't see how much more honest I could be. The issue here is transparent, so I've tried to be forthcoming: the Sabbat are mobilizing, and they are doing so in a way that obviously threatens your people. It threatens mine, too. Me, too. This isn't an enemy that cares much between factions. Likewise, I can't sigh and turn a cheek because I don't like you. Inaction would be a dereliction of duty, and a grievous failure to-"

He barked a mean, disgusted laugh. _"How long did that take you, Woeburne? Just personal curiosity. Did you practice this speech, bust open your notebook, or do you pull things like that out of the goddamn air?"_

"And because I can't tell Prince LaCroix yet," she said – crisp, well-punctuated and crackling cold. "Don't ask."

There was another intermission. Serena had no other excuses to spin, really; she lingered, breath sucked, hoping this stillness was not a bad sign. If Rodriguez refused her, there weren't many second options. No mention of Sebastian's business or the Ankaran Sarcophagus could be made. Nothing more could be promised. Nothing else could be said.

_"Careful, snake," _Nines cautioned. It was the truest insult he had. Yet there was faint optimism in his warning, something like teasing, and Ms. Woeburne never supposed she'd be anything but infuriated to be somebody's fun. _"Keep this up, and I might start thinking you ain't all tooth."_

Her smile was brittle. "I used to vote union."

When the Anarch's scoff came, it came incredulous, unamused, dissolved her weak joke - but it was something to start on, and something to try.

_"Send your proof,"_ Rodriguez instructed. And when he did, Serena's impatient fingers were already at work, scurrying for an answer, moving to go. _"I'll take care of it."_

"Thank-"

He hung up.


	47. Blunder

**Blunder**

**blun-dered, blun-der-ing, blun-ders:  
1. **_To move clumsily or blindly._  
**2. **_To make a usually serious mistake._

Lily scrubbed the primer from her face, dropped a brush into its can, and shook off.

Her work was modest. She'd spent the last few hours sorting and binding Knox's newspaper collections, sloppy towers stacked floor-to-ceiling; she'd popped a hundred cobwebs; and, somehow, she'd pushed her housemate's massive oak bookcase outside his filthy room to paint over the cracks. Five years of junk all culminated into one outrageous fire hazard. There was a small disaster now sitting in the central hall; it was an obstacle course of crumbling parchment, mildew and wide-elbowed furniture with cumbersome frames. Rotting wood pulp suffocated everything - but, provided nothing exploded nearby, the thin-blood wasn't worried. It's not as if she was rinsing the apartment in gasoline. Though he'd probably put this place through stranger treatments.

"Where the hell are you?" It was a useless thing to mumble as Lily raked both palms across an old pair of blue jeans to clean them. One week ago she'd informed Knox the dismal guest chamber was slated to be scraped, kicked and bleached into a legitimate living space for her. And he didn't seem fazed – waved it off with a distracted _"Oh, sure, awesome"_ – but that was the extent of his involvement. This annoyed her. Not the man's constant preoccupation; though frustrating at times, being haywire was one of Harrington's biggest charms. She was irritated because her roommate promised to lend a hand somewhere during all this disinfecting, dusting and stuccoing - yet, lo and behold, had been MIA the entire evening. _'Typical male.'_

Anyway, it was probably better to have free reign over this place for a while. He'd most likely launch into pantomiming and break the new décor.

Lily reached up and pulled her bandana from the orange beneath; it took a few strands, so she twisted green, splattered cloth around fingers and thumb. It was itching the crap out of her ears – which, all right, curled out just the tiniest bit. She'd just shampoo the hell out of herself once renovations were complete. That was the one decent thing about this must pit, anyway: its industrial-strength showerhead. The decay of old sports pages had been polished out of the floor and into her cuticles, through nails, under pores. Maybe tomorrow she'd head down to ValueMart and buy a couple cheap comfort rugs to soften the chips in their hardwood. Garnet or a nice baby-blue might brighten that bedroom up - should match the two cans of bland, domesticated cream Lily picked for her walls. Yeah, something reddish sounded nice. Maroon carpet, matching drapes, and a few patterned lampshades would make this barren place feel lived-in rather than like a sweaty storage closet. She was going to buy a bed frame. She was done sleeping on pallets, with camping on the ground.

Lily cracked her knuckles, assessed another chore, and set to it.

The first task had been to haul every piece of furnishing out of her room. The second had been sorting out these walls. The last would be putting this disaster area back together, which was a labor on its own - but thinking of that nice, milky gloss of paint, she'd do a good soap-scour before carting anything back in. Grime had a way of spreading its arms lazily throughout a clean place. Fixed fast enough, though; she took a five-minute basement trip to secure one bucket of water, plenty of detergent, and several crisp yellow sponges. They sloshed at Lily's kneecaps all the way back up to level four. When, legs soaked, she finally kicked the heavy door shut and settled down to work again, her commitment felt solid. Knox still was nowhere to be seen. _'No big surprise there. Wonder if he'll even show his face tonight.' _

It wasn't unusual for the ghoul to skitter off and disappear into Los Angeles for a few days; "doing stuff for my master" was his general excuse. Lily didn't mind, just so long as he told her beforehand. Loitering around this city – even nesting indoors – by herself was a spooky thing to the Caitiff these evenings. Still, she had no intentions of disrupting his life; not beyond the occasional cleaning-spree, anyway. Being a packrat was never healthy for anyone, otherworldliness notwithstanding. _'He better at least call in the next hour or so. Otherwise I'm shutting the padlocks.'_

Lily, sopping rag in hand, heaved a sigh. Would there ever be a time she wasn't left caring for other peoples' belongings? There had maybe once been some of her own.

She had developed mechanisms through the years of someone-else's and not-yours. No matter who the belongings belonged to, it was a tried-and-true fact that singing to yourself made everything easier. You could not mind that it was a cotton-candy thing for a bloodsucking parasite to find amusing. Lily liked the tooth-rot, sugary hits: boy-bands, girl-power, ballads and etc. She would wear headphones and whisper lyrics under her breath in the fearful, cold echo of Empire Arms, spooking at footsteps or door shuts. Now there was no reason to care if anyone overhead her. She turned on the radio and belted it out.

Suds multiplied; wet sleeves, squishing floorboards, tissue stuffed in the grooves of a file cabinet to keep its insides dry. Each drawer had to be yanked noisily out. Lily peeled handfuls of envelopes and set them somewhere safe.

These renovations were supposed to limit themselves to her room and the latrine. The former was musty; the latter was a balance of collapsing paper and turquoise tile, both spotted with mold. She confessed to getting a bit carried away. Ripping that grody plastic shower curtain off its hooks had been restorative - and having replaced one eyesore, Lily found it hard to stop. She sent two mange-eaten welcome mats down the garbage shoot, stained cup-circles off the coffee table, and filled a knife jab in their kitchen countertop with wax. Slide in a few deodorizers (these were supposed to be _Raspberry Mist_), and it might even look like a house in here. Small action, she knew - tiny improvement, thimbles of thought - could turn depression on its head. This was a shitty two-bedroom, not a deluxe suite, but the colors were tangible; they weren't black, white, genderless gray.

She could still see the startle of her blood hit that carpet - two drops, ruined monochrome, catastrophe in red.

It was a hated, unsettling memory; it was hateful and unsettling how often her mind exhumed it. One of these days, Lily had to quit thinking about Serena Woeburne. The guilt was a slow simmer, a mistake dug just beneath her ribs, something like thorns. She wasn't sure if it was regret or not. She wasn't sure if this sour aftertaste was from wronging a woman who might've been her, or if it was merely a less-painful substitute for heartbreak, for the picture of E's face etched beneath all that broken coffee table glass. Would she see him again? A scarier possibility: would he even want to see her? Questions made her guts heave. She wasn't sure about anything. But it felt awful.

Blood on carpet, tears on wax. Lily shoved the collage outside herself. She drove her grubby sponge.

And she hadn't meant to find it.

She hadn't. Really hadn't. She really hadn't meant this, and Lily would swear to that, as if swearing would ever be enough. There was no secret purpose undermining the day. There was no riffling around in her roommate's private files with ulterior motives. Hell, Lily _trusted_ him a little more than that, stupid and stupider as trust had always been. They weren't labeled coherently enough to navigate, anyway; if there had been a mindful search, it probably would've failed. But the Caitiff hadn't anticipated that her left sneaker toe might catch an uneven edge of floorboard. She hadn't counted on tossing an armful of manila folders, documents careening midair, an eruption across cheap maple. As a matter of fact, the fledgling panicked – not from fear of what might lay open – but because she may have just destroyed Knox's portfolios. There was a rush, a plunge, the reckless slant of her hands as they bunched loose sheaves together. Bad luck - it could only have been bad luck – pure, unkind fortune. Bad luck spilled one very particular bundle onto Lily's lap.

But it was there. It happened. Coincidence or fate or accident, that folder came to her, and he'd dog-eared everything inside of it.

He had everything.

He had it printed neatly out and sorted by date: e-mails, phone bills, past addresses, school names, jobs held, phone calls, her credit card history_._ Salaries and tax returns. ID photos, licenses, the number above her mailbox. Every message she'd ever sent to Ms. Woeburne marked and underlined in scratchy green ink. Lily would've thrown up all across the photocopies if her insides worked. Acids clutched inside, made ugly stomach pains; an arm grabbed for it, body thumping heavily into a seated position, head bowing woozily between both knees. She didn't think vampires fainted – not the normal way. But every muscle twisted, panic and shame, papers shuffling limply, pounding temples drowning out the tingy music. There was that tired saying – "pancaked" – a cliché made for the asthmatic sensations, for people who couldn't breathe. The reality of it all was crushing. She filled up her chest and there was that empty burn.

It shouldn't have been. It shouldn't have even made her bat an eyelash – not after everything else. Not after Rolf, who abandoned his genetically imperfect Childe. Not after Nines, who sang a pretty tune and discarded her once his informant could no longer inform. But something about the pettiness, the minor leagues, the _routine _of the thing_, _made these print-outs seem impossible. Knox had played stupid this entire time, allowed Lily to believe he knew nothing of her beyond what little she shared. But truth was heaped here - right here - as though she'd never look, never stumble. And all along.

They were dated to last week.

Harris stood up. She left half the sad mound where it fell; dumbstruck fingers wouldn't cooperate to gather all of them. Lily couldn't feel her hands. The knuckles were like knobs on a tree trunk, bolted hinges – donut palms, gaping with holes. Her knees felt weak. Her mouth was overcome by a strange synthetic flavor, esophagus tight, swollen tongue tasting like a water balloon, rubber held carefully between cold gums. Wedging past the colossal bookshelf, she wandered absently into Knox's bedroom and slid down the wall, flaking teal, opposite his unmade bed.

The thin-blood would've left if she had anywhere to go – if she'd saved up enough money for a shitty hotel. How long could her finances sustain something like life? Maybe a week or two. Lily didn't even own any luggage to pack what little she owned. Sinus pressure throbbed. Her throat scalded. Squeezing the air back out of its pipes, Harris struck her skull base into a length of plaster and tried not to implode. She felt very tired, really. She could have laid down. She might have gone to sleep.

Disbelief, confusion, apathy - they were a deadening carnival procession. _What could be done? What would be said? What should she do?_

Was there, she wondered, with all the nerves snarled from the tips of her fingers to the hollow of skull, any use?

It might mean a mountain to act. What would confronting him accomplish, a bite with dull teeth, besides possibly getting her shot? There was no genuineness, no salvaging hope. E had been right; compassion did not exist in undeath, where friendship was pretext for social convenience. Maybe she should let the weight fall, give it up - forfeit her grasping for something human, something _more_. There wasn't anything more. There was one truth left, only honesty to console: and it came in the callousness that no matter how one behaved, they would inevitably get stuck, a whipping post to quicker Kindred, somebody's day-pawn, someone to end up _here_.

But the instinct to survive was still strong. Lily did not want to force Knox into a position where he had no viable option but to kill her. She knew he kept a handgun in the nightstand. He didn't want her to know this, Harris was sure, but there'd been ammo cases on his closet shelves and she explored until upturning the relevant pistol. There was no lock; her roommate, a perpetual bumbler, must've been afraid of losing the key.

The prospect of a bullet entering her body – probably within hours – deeply disturbed. In the interest of self-defense, Lily opened that creaky drawer and removed its ominous tenant. The gun was heavier than she expected. But it rested comfortably in her hand, grip clean and dry, a remnant of another borrowed weapon. She wondered if Knox had ever actually clicked back the hammer and fired. Had he killed anyone? The thought was unpalatable. She couldn't imagine him – who'd seemed so harmless; who buzzed about endlessly, speaking faster than his mind could tick – taking aim and prematurely halting someone's life, let alone hers. Unreal scenes flitted by. How much force would it take to split her ribcage? How much force to club a Caitiff to the ground, on a sidewalk, cartridge inside her throat; one sound: _bangbang_; unwarm blood across the hardwood she'd buffed only minutes ago. They were devastating visions. Yet they were ones that couldn't be forgotten or breathed away.

The pistol was loaded; she gently laid it to wait on a plank beside her, black handle at rest, inches away.

Maybe she ought to throw it out the window. There was no telling whether or not he stashed another, though; smarter to keep it. There was jelly in her diaphragm, bitterness that lost its scab, but Harris could think very clearly in this regard. It was better to keep the handgun. Better to protect herself if it came to that. She could remember Nines Rodriguez standing in a downtown alley, how dispassionate and mechanical a thing pulling that trigger had been. He had stepped on the dead man's chest, looked at him, fired. No drama. His arm had barely moved; the Eagle bounced casually, no appreciation for consequence, little consideration, offhand. There had been dull practice in blue eyes through lead, marrow and gunsmoke. _Boredom_. The Brujah had smiled at her.

God, Lily hoped it wouldn't come to that.

The neonate futilely attempted to calm herself. She was still a vampire. A bottom-feeder, maybe, a small fish in shark water, but still a vampire. Her fangs cut. Her petrified heart needed no oxygen to funnel blood. She had the faculties of afterlife at her disposal: speed coupled with an unnatural will to prolong existence, whatever it meant now. Lily Harris was not defenseless. If some ghoul wanted to dick her over – to whatever end – he should have anticipated a half-cocked fight. Shit, it wasn't like fighting was new. She'd been ambushed by Sabbat footmen, snubbed by Ventrue bureaucrats, and duped into treachery for the Los Angeles Brujah. Enough was enough. She wasn't about to flop down and take it from a smaller fish.

'_Who the fuck am I kidding?' _Lily stared at the semi-automatic and gulped down something wretched_. _She couldn't kill Knox. This notion was intolerable, untastable. The fledgling had never murdered, never shot; she certainly wasn't about to start on someone who'd been a friend. He was too familiar - nervous ticks, humming, fidgeting fingers and all.

Maybe she could take out one of his kneecaps, though. Maybe her aim would hit.

The quandary of shooting-or-not made time slow. It might've been an hour, it might've been fifteen minutes, it might not have made any difference at all.

Harris heard him walk in. Chain locks wiggled shut like something from death row. Bolts sounded like breaking. She listened as he took stock of the whirlwind that ripped his house apart, cussed, scratched through a scraggled head of brown. Knox moved with lunges. The thin-blood monitored his footsteps - pacing through their complex, worrying things, briefly searching for her. She let the last of the coldness from her throat. She reached for the pistol.

The hinges creaked. She waited. Their sound was a horrible promise and a thin glow of color from a different era of life.

Knox came in and saw a loaded gun.

_What the _was all he got out before Harris moved her body and hefted it at him. Reflex action, a flurry of adrenaline, chemicals that didn't die. The ghoul took cover behind his insubstantial bedroom door. A bullet would've crunched right through the birch.

"What the fuck is this?" the Caitiff screamed, armed tooth and weapon with no concrete concept of how prepared she was to use them. Lily found papers fisted in her hand and hurled them. They never made it – lost one another mid-air, fluttered in a crippled burst. He did not need them. The yellow of a ghoul's eyes revealed everything in that moment. She could have killed him surely then.

She wanted to ask _why_ – demand an explanation – but knew answers would make the world worse. Feeling ruin, the thin-blood thrust all her questions and her morals and her care at arm's-length, and she dug in. She stood with soles anchored firmly, lips wrenched into a snarl, disgusted as she was righteous, all ten fingers supporting her gun.

"You son-of-a-bitch," Lily shouted, not a shriek, but her howl. Cortisol had turned her elbows to wire, locking the tendons, knowing there was no space to withdraw. She wasn't going to let him speak. No one would lie to her again. "I knew Bertram Tung had you spying on Woeburne but how could you - HOW COULD YOU - to me? I'm not going to- DON'T," she hollered when the dark of his mouth opened the grimace.

"Jesus, Lily, Jesus-"

"I SAID - I said shut your fucking mouth, Knox. You brought this on us. You did it. You don't get to talk." She could see the unhealthy pink of her hand around the Colt. Its creases churned a sweaty shade. There was only a weak tint of blood. "This is MY stand. I don't have a master to protect me; I get stuck with what drains down to the dregs and knowing that, you still went behind my back and used it. You used every time I've ever needed help, every time I fucked up and came back here, every time you said didn't matter for _what_-?"

"I can't. I don't know. Lily, I don't, I can't - I can't do this." His voice wrenched high; his posture was on the verge of a run.

"Try," she seethed.

"Lily, come on," his voice said, sounding soothing, skittering at every twitch of her thin silhouette. Each jab or flinch sent Harrington farther behind the barricade of door, slipping on his shoes. That boyish face was a bleached, spastic pallor; it made a paste of large ears and the sharp, slightly off-center chin. There was a nasal, splintering note to his pleas, and a grimness to the adolescent planes of a face with dark circles. His fright was real, and it was not new. "Calm down. Put the gun down. Just - just - just breathe for a minute, all right?" The futility of that didn't register with either of them. "You don't know. Look, it's not... it's not that simple. See? It's not simple. I can tell you as much as I can. Don't do this. This is crazy-"

_Crazy_ was the wrong thing to say. Lily bared her fangs and nearly squeezed the trigger on accident as all her parts flared red.

"I'm what," she barked, tear ducts watering, agitating scarlet, but nothing fell. The lamp on his bedside table shattered when she ripped it from its outlet. He heard but did not really see the smash on the wall. Knox recoiled - he shrank into himself like porcelain had been a gunshot. He probably thought it had been. "Maybe I am. I'd have to be. I'd have to be out of my fucking mind to think you people had anything like that - anything like a conscience, or morals, or a soul. This is CRAZY? Are you going to add that to your next report, you prick?" Another crash as a misaligned picture frame tripped from its nail and bit the dust.

"Hey, whoa! No, no, no way; you are wrong. That's not how it is. If you're going to do this, at least know what you're doing it for. I never passed that file to Bertram," he swore, but the chattering of his bottom jaw cheapened whatever it might've changed.

"Hell you didn't," Lily hissed. Her shoulders were pinned beneath her ears. Her molars ground together. She felt a pain that came from nowhere and everywhere at once. "Why should I believe anything you say? Your master probably planted you in that shitty bar to pick me up. You thought maybe there was still something to bleed from me, some way of using me to get inside Serena Woeburne's business. Let me save you some time: there's not. This well is all dried out. Fuck you people. I am so sorry," she spat, "so sorry for the day I met Serena Woeburne. What were you going to do once Bertram decided I wasn't helping him along – pretend like none of this happened, boot me out on my ass? Why even bother. Just wait till I fell asleep and throw open my fucking blinds!"

"That is total bullshit!" The protest was made of fear and injustice in equal parts. His palms flung forward as if to ward off bullets. They would have failed; she could shoot a path through meat and carpal, put a burnt notch in his skull. "Look, let's get one thing straight right now. I never knew you worked for Woeburne until that night when you grabbed her file. Bertram didn't even have me on that case until after you moved in here. And what was I supposed to do," he wheezed, pupils dilated on the pistol's Cyclops eye. "What the hell was I supposed to tell him? _'No, sorry – that's not cool?'_ Jesus, man. I can't. I can't do that! He's a Nosferatu, OK? He would've killed me. I would have disappeared. I don't want that. I don't know what I..." But the ghoul's mouth was arid and empty of anything else to want or say. He gasped. His arms slumped, weak rope, at both sides. "I just know I can't. I'm sorry. I _can't_."

Lily's sympathy could not subsist. "Why didn't you just tell me?" she wanted to know; that didn't make the question answerable or fair. Canine flashed under the overhead. "And now you act like there's an excuse for what you did? I'm not a fucking moron. Not anymore. You played me from day one. Pop journalist? Get the fuck out!"

There was no way to tell if that had been an expletive or an order; the ghoul sprang backwards, ducking into their adjacent bathroom. He banged a heel on the toilet pipes and toppled. Fingers twisted into the new shower curtain; Knox groped to prevent himself from falling, snapping rings, tangling. He'd been cornered between Lily and a three-by-four window with shatter-proof glass. There was nowhere to go; there was no hidden crowbar pull and escape. Hopefully he wouldn't reach into a medicine cabinet and come out with another gun-

"I was going to tell you," the man blabbered, but couldn't finish; there were too many knots tied up in his throat. Lily growled at him. Knox pressed into the icy wallpaper, back hunched, gold darting uselessly in his skull. There was no improvised exit. He would have to go under, over or through her. He swallowed his spit.

"OK, yeah," the ghoul admitted, tongue tip sweeping. "No, that's a lie. There's no way I was going to tell you anything. Shit, man – I knew you'd react like this. But I wasn't trying to hurt you. It was just... it was a coincidence. At least that's how it was to me. Bertram probably knew. He definitely knew," Harrington decided, backbone bristling. His limbs had started to quake; it was hot in this bathroom, humidity and bleach; he looked like a prisoner naked in tundra, where wolves ate, where the earth was too hard for a shovel or cave. "But I didn't. Not till you started acting so weird. Do you think you had anything he didn't already know, that he couldn't find out? You're kidding yourself. These people don't miss anything. They don't-" He had to stop; he forgot to breathe.

"So you used me," she told him.

"Yeah, Lily." They looked at each other. "I did."

There was a ripple of plastic from the hanging curtain. There was a dripping from the faucet head: _tink, tink, tink_.

"But I didn't do it because it's what I wanted. I didn't do it because I thought I'd get paid, or paid off, I don't know. I did it because my master told me to. He's my master. My _master, _right?" Knox said the word with something she had never felt – unwilling respect and authentic repugnance, suspended on worship she'd never know without blood-bond. He was panting. He was doglike. "I had to. I _had to_. I didn't want to. Really, I didn't – because. Because you're my friend. You're the only one I've got. I just- I just had to do what I had to do, you know? What I had to do."

Lily swallowed. She stiffened the Colt; it felt more and more like a flyaway reel. Knox stared desperately at her, salivating, breathing through those oversized front teeth.

The vampire watched her lesser cousin shake in the detergent and the soap stains. She noticed the staccato rise and fall of living lungs – not quite human, not fully deceased. Envy fizzled, melding with resignation. And something else – something familiar but unpleasant, something sweet like saccharine and slow like postnasal drip.

_Pity_.

Lily lowered the handgun – a wilting, herculean slump.

"I want you to get rid of it, understand? All of it. Burn everything you have on me," she ordered him, still shaking. They were both still shaking. Knox's hands were death-white; they became insect wings hovering over the steady descent of her gun.

"Yeah, yeah, OK," he promised. A gesture de bonne foi, the ghoul reached down for one stray leaflet stuck to his shoe treads and shredded it. Scraps wafted onto tile. The thin-blood saw, her threats unmade; each piece seemed insignificant, a leaf falling late off a cold November tree. Flame would brown them brittle soon enough. She'd make sure of it. This bonfire-to-be was all so strange. What if she hadn't seen it? What if she hadn't minded all the dustbunnies and never gave a shit about this crappy apartment? What if she never took a Ventrue's money and never took a man at his word?

"Lily?" Knox asked.

She had no more in her to yell. "Yeah. What?"

And that was when he pointed to his stolen weapon, looking where it rested, impotently still against the dead flesh of her thigh.

"Safety's on," the ghoul said.

Lily went into her clean white room and cried.


	48. Racerun

**Racerun**

Nines Rodriguez knows where the money is, and it isn't this handful of bills.

Baron Los Angeles surveyed the home around him with something like skepticism, eyes narrow silver in darkness, expression unreadable through dim light. Hollywood wore a disconcerting aura that did not house Brujah well. The uneasy ambiguity of Rodriguez's stare was always worsened by it, and then worsened still by this echoing townhouse in some too-rich hill, by pretentious wood building up windowless walls. There had been no bouncer guarding the door of Nicky Shih's property. He hadn't called yesterday evening to confirm an appointment. He hadn't been escorted to some cashmere smoking lounge with leather sofas and brocade. He'd buzzed and walked right in.

This place was uncomforting, a show of cosmopolitan class too exaggerated for its owner's age and occupation. Postmodernism covered plaster in strange shades of orange, crimson, lucrative browns. A conference table sat right in the entrance hall – five steps through that bright fucking red front door – nothing but Windex sheen upon it. The ceiling bulbs were bare. The second floor banister shined spotlessly, arcing into unmoving rooms that weren't visible from where he'd entered. You couldn't find dust with a wet rag. There was no sound but the neighborhood cars turning outside, no movement save fern fronds caught in cheap fans. It was not a home that looked lived in. This tightened the guest's already taut nerves, and – as most local Ventrue could attest to – making Anarchs nervous before business deals was generally a bad strategy. Nines did not sit. He couldn't find any chairs. The Baron stood, and he watched.

An empty house underscored the audacity of tonight. Bravado was unwise for delicate politicians wanting to parlay with Brujah they'd never met. Then again, the man he'd come here to speak with tonight was only a politician in that he played financial babysitter for Ash Rivers. It was what you'd call a low-risk job; counting coins did not exactly crosshair your back, but trustworthiness - even paid trustworthiness - usually earned extra friends. And a Baron's personal voucher would puff any Toreador ego, whatever the faction, especially when said Baron fished your card out of Hollywood's great big bucket of shoe-polishers himself.

While the prospect of tapping holes into Isaac's tanks had been on his mind for awhile, Rodriguez hadn't actually been the one to grab this olive branch. He had tested other strategies. And he didn't intend on cutting those opportunities short, but the facts were plain: you could not fortify dugouts with damp rolls of Jacksons handed over by neonates, potentials, and sweaty-palmed kids every few weeks. A sizeable chunk of green sat in his back pocket right now, payment from Bernardino, who'd been striving (unsuccessfully) to sell angeldust out east. Thickening this sum was seven-hundred Playboy retrieved from a drop-off this evening – fees extracted from some inconsequential fuck named Dennis, who'd earned ghouldom by smashing in the head of a Venture patsy last winter. Damsel had already finished her collections this month, accepting whatever resources their den scraped together, a ramshackle donation box of loose change for gun repair. And that was it for Free-State Central. That was income. Not entirely dismal; not a bad amount, considering their challenges; but it was simply not enough. _Not enough_.

He could already tell you it wouldn't hold them. Multiply that due by three, there might be equipment and gasoline bought to ride downtown through another six months. But you could not strengthen off incremental gains. He had learned it from his Sire, this city, and before that, from a childhood of skipping meals. You could not cut even. You had to make profit. You had to look upward.

Nines had just started to wonder how a man in his position might safely inquire about something like this when – lo and behold – there was a message blinking on his machine. It was from Nicky Shih, who he'd never met, and it promised a bargain he'd never been able to secure on his own.

With Leopold taking pop shots, a Sabbat entanglement and Abrams using the Brujah as his own travelling meat-shield… this was a proposal Rodriguez felt more'n a little inclined to hear out.

So he showed up, parked two blocks down to avoid surveillance, hopped the community gates and set up downstairs. In this vacant townhome, by himself, smelling cleaner on the bare décor and cinder in a bitter caged fireplace. Nines lingered. He thought.

"Did I keep you waiting?" Shih asked, not really a question, unfazed tone and charcoal eyes that blinked as he slid through a back door.

Nicky Shih was kind of an odd snake. The man reeked Toreador – had been an agent and performer in some traveling opera troupe prior to his appearance in Los Angeles. And yet, for every stereotypical flamboyance, there was a decidedly backstage nature about the way he operated. Dark pupils would've been more at home in a copperhead's face, quiet and predatorily cold; black bangs flicked smugly laden in product; a shaven face did nothing to disguise that impossibly sharp, jutting chin. He had perfect teeth inside a negotiator's grin and a pale birthmark disrupting one emaciated, sorrel cheek. It was exactly the sort of look that made Nines think _Ventrue_, but in California – among poisonous sometimes-allies – slick pretenses and financial shrewdness weren't necessarily a bad combination. Abrams thought well enough of his advisor,at least. It was a meld of management experience and a Sire's flattering recommendation that convinced Isaac to hire him almost ten years ago, before Sebastian LaCroix's vanguards arrived, when a dead actor's rents became more inconvenient than his misery.

Downtown's Baron had never met Nicky Shih face-to-face until now. Because it was in his character, Nines's look hardened immediately, but not to menace; the Brujah was genuinely curious in figuring this summons out. He folded both arms from across that massive table then pinned Shih directly in the eye. His coat was lined with leather and guns. "I can be patient when I've got a motive. I just hope you give me one. You're-"

"In person. And, of course, I know who you are." They did not shake. Shih entered the vestibule, exit shutting behind him, a flash of electricity and palm leaves from outside. There was no air circulation in here; the vents channeled nothing but silence. Neither sat and an offer was not made. The Toreador wrestled his jacket onto a closet hanger, disconcertingly unafraid for first meetings, irreverent wrinkles in a striped button-down and too-clean jeans. "Don't worry. You won't leave disappointed – that much I can swear upfront."

Rodriguez grunted. "We'll see."

"You didn't want a drink, or anything? Sorry. You think I'd be better at this by now." Nines's frown must have said no for him. Shih didn't seem to care. "Good," the man added, rehearsed informality, confidence sturdy enough to grate. Smooth fucking operator; he must've been aware of how arrogant this friendliness looked. Maybe it was an attempt at tilting their playing field south. Maybe this would-be ambassador was merely a typical member of that sauntering, nonplussed clan. Rodriguez didn't know between Maybe One and Maybe Two; could've been a little of both, or none of either. But it absolutely was deliberate. You could tell he was an asshole from the way his shirtsleeves were rolled. "Straight to the chase. That's how I prefer it. Before we start, though, I have a ground rule: anything said here will be kept confidential. I can't extend that promise outside, obviously. It's just that I hate tap-dancing around points. So in this house, please, be as frank as you damn well want."

The offices of Abrams Jewelry set Baron Central on edge for several reasons: claustrophobic corners, too much green glass, antique aromas and their snide fatcat occupant. None applied here. But Nines did not like how these spacious new walls made his own voice echo and buzz. "Nice place. Am I on camera?"

The Toreador shook his head, lifting one palm, emphasis between a cough and a snort. "No, of course not. The whole property is a business front. I take clients here, occasionally, but I'm not stupid enough to live or film where I work."

It was difficult to trust spoken oaths from any clan with Presence, and Nines included his in that assessment. So he had been a little more careful than strolling around these unassuming burbs unarmed; two Eagles clanked at either side, last resort assurances, harsher metal than the light that caught his eyes. It was not as though he expected Shih might shoot him. But Anarchs exercised caution these nights, especially crossing dangerous borderlines, and phosphorous pain still seared Nines angry at every odd twist or turn.

The bandages were gone and the seeping holes beneath them healed, but that encounter left a bad taste in this Baron's mouth. Perhaps he ought to know better than tempting truces with Foremen, even ones who chewed their nails, and there were no Camarilla strings involved in Shih's neck of woods. Yet telling himself so did not make circumstances too terrible better tonight. When push came to shove, and you stripped off all the smiles and history, there wasn't a great damned deal of difference between bargaining Ventrue bitches or Toreador "friends."

One got a whole hell of a lot madder than the other – that was about it.

Whatever their party, those in the fold understood this: Hollywood district was Free-State in name, but no father than that. Smart chiefs did not waltz swaggering into secret meetings anywhere, especially not here. But one luxury Rodriguez did not have – might not have exercised – was a Baron's prerogative to act remotely, deal via proxy, charter teleconferences from behind barricades. Their officers were too few these nights and far too hot-blooded; you could rely upon kids in battlefields, but not in politics. This is the shit that would really kill you. And Nines would not have trusted anyone with the devil's gambit he was about to cash.

Especially not after what happened on that goddamn pier.

Humoring a junior's – what pretentious thing did she name them? "_Preliminaries_" – had nearly gotten him killed, decimated their windfall storage, and worse? Halfway executions drew serious lines against him among those in Hollywood who'd wonder if shot Anarchs were fit vanguards. Rodriguez still wasn't sure what hand Woeburne cast in that roaring mess. Frankly, he resented being squeezed into an arrangement where she took the liberties of calling – wasn't about to be some bureaucratic pet's weekend playing piece, hell with Sabbat antics – but headmen did not refuse information, particularly not when it involved your good standing. Besides, there were some distinct advantages to this precarious angle… being in London's peripherals again. Nines maintained a certain dignity – reserve that came with Brujah leadership – but he was in no position to dismiss intelligence. Woman like Woeburne had the potential to double as a threat and an extremely useful contact. He'd keep her at a careful distance for awhile, same way you leave spiders to eat smaller pests. You set margins, poke at them a bit when issues rise, let them be and watch what happens. It was a temporary trade – tripwire relationship – but better than the outright, bloody hostility of Round One. Much less explosive this time, at that. She seemed to think he was a suitable dog to sick on mutual foes, given the right lure, but that association was mutual. Ventrue made the best eyes when you could stand them long enough to hear reports. London was a razor just dull enough to catch herself up on the stupid rivalries he could use against her. And motherfucking Prince LA was going to be very hard-pressed to assassinate him after bungling his last ploy.

Presuming that was what the son-of-a-bitch meant to do. Presuming he'd actually failed instead of succeeded at some intricacy Rodriguez wasn't yet aware of. Not an encouraging thought, but entirely possible, especially with bluebloods. All the more reason to keep hitting the occasional pitch towards LaCroix's gofer. All the more reason to entertain whatever invitation was brewing here tonight.

_This_ could've been a trap, too, Nines supposed… but Isaac was rarely that insecure and didn't condescend to preemptive attacks without provocation. The kingpin's reputation couldn't handle that in an artist world. And Baron Downtown imagined his own reputation didn't make him a real desirable target for some lone Toreador suit's blackmail. Just a hunch.

"I'm going to voice an observation, if it doesn't offend you. You're in something of an uncomfortable situation. Politically, of course, but I also mean financially. Running an army is not cheap work. Or I imagine it isn't, at least; my responsibilities have zilch to do with warfare. But I _do_ appreciate how command can turn from a character trait to a trade commodity."

"You're tap-dancing," Rodriguez informed him, more of a gruff than an insult. He could scrape up a little patience, but there was none for persuasions or political correctness. Nines did not waste his own time listening to overtures from accountants. "Abrams bankrolls me. Is that where this discussion is headed? Because our arrangement for the State is well understood. If you're that afraid of offending me, this meeting isn't looking to get very far."

One broad, overgrown eyebrow cocked over a gaze very difficult to see behind. The Toreador had not been expecting that. He looked about thirty-five. "Don't let me give you the wrong impression. Flattery isn't on my agenda; I just didn't want you to think I was rude."

"I'll worry about what I think. You tell me what you're offering. That's the only way it's going to go."

Shih gave a deliberating _hmm_. He wasn't taken aback, so to speak, but there was cautious positivity about him. "I can see this is going to be a short discussion. Not that I've got a problem with that. I'll be as direct as I can with you: what I'm offering, tonight and beyond, is another way to operate. One that doesn't rely upon the generosity of a less-than-selfless Baron. Unlike my superior," the haggler noted, and tapped at his own shoulder thoughtfully, watch jingling. That single piece looked more expensive than Nines's car. It probably was. "I have a practical grasp of what danger looks like and stronger ideas about how it should be dealt with. Like most of us in Hollywood – with the exception of two very particular siblings – I'm not surrounded by a patron's thugs to protect me. And I realize that, while even the best commanders need support... monetary or otherwise... war strategies shouldn't be hatched by directors in boardrooms. Holding purse strings doesn't make you a general. And, you know, this argument's been made a hundred times; I'm only applying it our situation here."

Nines Rodriguez's priorities are healthier than blueblood capitalism; his concrete methods are in a heavier weight class than that perverted, hungry desire of the rich to earn _more_. The Free-State is a lurid beast in many ways, but it is too hardheaded to lust after wealth for wealth's sake. You could not be like the Ventrue or Toreador in this. Petty aspirations and mortal greed are the first drives set aside when enemy nations lunged for throats. You do not sit on your Swiss account and let it grow fat. There is no real use to conservative ideals, no immediate benefit, no payouts that come quickly enough to matter. They are not ancient dukes with a dozen generations of diamonds and pearl behind them. They are not old world heirs who count coins and bide their time. Life is too fast in this circuit; you cannot wait for capital and authority to grow. You have to run for it. You have to strive. You have to be faster than the other guy with deadly ambitions and a knife in the curve of his hand.

You have to _make _your power – quick, quiet, blunt – with the foresight not to clutch any source too long.

The former rule another Brujah had taught him. The latter was easy enough when ammunition and violence ate up your savings by night.

Unlike some of his adversaries, older and swollen on top-down provisions, Baron Central is brutally aware the first game of Jyhad – survival – always propels expansion. This pair is mutually interdependent, for power is a component of safety and safety precedes power. Anarchs are a simple people, their pretenses rough; he has always derived his greatest influence from personal dominance, not economics. Yet even messiah leadership cannot ignore the need to provide. This cannot be emphasized enough: it is a _need_, building banks, not a particular want – a secondary gamble beneath the ebb and flow of face control. But it is one every chieftain must play.

This second game is not because his expenses are lavish or elaborate. It's because money buys bullets and bullets buy both attention and fear. Nines Rodriguez doesn't call himself a king, but he does acknowledge this: Camarilla or Free man, if you cannot cash the claims you check, you do not survive for very long.

And he is very sick of barking on Isaac Abrams's gold standard chain.

The Anarch dug both palms into the untouched surface of that table, hunkering forward, posture aggressive. Shih mimicked his body language in a roundabout way, rhetorically sensitive, a deferment to alphaship. He might've had experience in negotiating with Brujah, whom one should never intimidate or sweet talk into agreements; he might have noticed the way diplomacy was making Baron Angeltown bristle. You could see the steel flash of a handgun tucked beneath a pocket. You could see it bully quietly, silent but permanent warning – another murky spot of metal – alongside bracers and rings, trenchant glare, mercury threats and long teeth. They spoke as loud as any of Rodriguez's words. "If this is about money, I'll listen. But I need to have a very clear picture about what you expect in return. We don't haggle, and we don't exchange blind favors downtown."

"What I expect you to do is whatever you think is best. I'm not trying to buy you out; honestly, I don't particularly want contact with you right now, and I'd think you'd understand why. That's too close for me to toe in this circle, as I'm certainly not my boss. I'll give you full jurisdiction, unlike some would, over anything you choose to do with the help I provide. I'll give you space. All I mean to gain is a little goodwill for the future." A clock was ticking somewhere out of sight. The metronome minute hand did not soothe, but despite its cool artificiality, Shih's smile pledged big gains for minor loss. "Besides, I've come to trust Isaac's idea of governance less and less in these past few years. There's a charm about the way he does business, but the rest of us can't – not with brutes taking shots at us and no decent patrols," he noted with no swing towards displeasure or malice. This was merely a concern addressed. "Would you do a better job? I don't know, really, but I'm willing to bet a few bucks on it."

"Wait a minute. Are you selling a protection racket to _me_?"

"No! Not really. Well, sort of. It all depends on how you want to look at it," the Toreador announced, incredibly relaxed for the weight of his suggestion, wondering if he ought to crack a grin. That musical voice jumped between frankness and conceit. "This wouldn't be public domain. Naturally. I'd call it a personal investment in Los Angeles – more long-term than Abrams's monthly 'contributions.' My end goal is still a safer Hollywood in which to operate. But I'm... well, I'm thinking ahead a ways. After these hunters. After Sebastian LaCroix. After Isaac, actually. If, so saying,it comes to that." An ominous, baited "if."

There was no need to paraphrase or hunt for written commitments. Shih referred to the unspoken confrontation that had been brewing between Rodriguez and Abrams since organized rule returned to his sector en force. Camarilla _progress_ was an inevitability that prompted Isaac to feed Anarch checking accounts, to keep a wall of angry rioters between himself and Ventrue objectives… and it was also why he wrapped that chain so tight. When their Prince either petered out or sealed his final embargo, Baron Hollywood hoped downtown would be bleeding too badly for another uprising; by capping each endowment, he engineered weaknesses that might let him seize city domination for himself. Nines knew this. And Abrams knew his wealth – the truce that had become Rodriguez's muzzle – was the only element keeping a discontent warlord from turning his soldiers upon their neighboring king.

"I have one question for you," the Brujah posed, unflinching, a combination of many uncertainties. He did not scowl or need to. "Why me?"

His answer came packaged as another question. "As opposed to our current commander-in-chief? There are a few things I could say to that. Mainly, this is a crisis of loyalty and fair treatment. I mean, let's just put this out there: is it in your experience that Isaac Abrams pays particularly well?" Nicky queried – a sarcastic, knowing barb. He passed it by before Nines had any chance to grow insulted. "Don't get me wrong. The guy's all right; I hold nothing against him. And circumstances being otherwise, I probably wouldn't have reached out to you. But this hunter activity - this was my last straw. Our Baron has done remarkably little to secure anything but his own Childer's necks. Preferential policing and emergency response like that gets one to thinking: _what am _I _getting out of this arrangement? _Why serve a politician whose interests stretch only as far as his movies and his blood? Why-"

"I'm not talking about Isaac. You've told me your concerns. I'm talking about you and me. Why not make a run for yourself?" Rodriguez cut in, dubious by nature, brows furrowed over lucid and uncompromising cobalt. "You've sure as hell got the finances and I'm surprised a man like you doesn't try to muster the support."

Shih laughed as much as he dared, a light but wary smattering. His front teeth were oddly straight and even. "Hell no. I've got no aspirations for that job. Too much attention. Unlike the showboats that are my associates, I understand I work better offstage. Nobody dangerous knows me well enough to take offense at how I spend and what I do. And, forgive me if I'm throwing this in your face: I have no desire to stamp a bulls-eye on my head for Bach or Sebastian LaCroix." They were admissions that demanded a pause, spurring thumb and forefinger to that wedge of a chin. Nines did not like the gesture. He looked more and more like a gluttonous mongoose the longer this Baron stood to listen. "You, though. Let's talk about you. You've been dealing with both of those problems for some time. You've had that mark longer than I've been in this city. And, as I've come to understand it, you've still done a tighter job at defense than anyone I'm serving has. With some extra steam – an anonymous donation to your cause, for example – I'm willing to bet you could do even better. Were you to require a burst of firepower in the coming nights. Were, say… in the foreseeable future…"

"Don't finish that thought. You realize how serious this is?"

"I realize I have to look out for my own best interests. And I imagine you do, too. Whoever stands in the way of those interests, well…" A click of his tongue. "Bad decision. Or bad leadership, depending on who we're talking about."

Rodriguez was ironclad doctrines and mutiny pacts. He gave no indication of his plans or poor relations; it was an observable matter, a tension shared. The Brujah did not flinch or withdraw. His provisions were simple, lethal, and they did not allow for hasty coalitions by scheming Toreador. "I know exactly who we're talking about. But before anything changes hands, let's you and me be absolutely clear about one thing: you do not propose something like this then backtrack. You shake my hand, you are in with me. The whole nine yards – do you understand? You do not back out from this. If you have second-thoughts down the road, I will consider it a betrayal; Free-State LA has a way of dealing with betrayers you won't like."

A flat, skeletal palm hefted. It was not elegant, but was somehow persuasive in its knobs, its plainness and the fade of piano-playing upon brown knuckles. "There's no need for that. I am fully aware of what I'm getting into. Though I can understand why you might be suspicious, understand this isn't a personal issue for me," Shih reassured. He abandoned the furniture and crossed both arms, laid-back and worryingly cavalier, tilting his head. "I consider Isaac an employer, not a benefactor. It's an exchange of services – nothing more, nothing less. And this is just good business to me."

"And your other employer?"

Shih laughed again. In the confines of these sparse walls, it was an echoing, perplexing sound. "He's a spoiled prick. I'd be glad to see Rivers fall on that pretty pouting face."

_Trade commodity leadership_ – whatever the sales terms, phrases and amicability, this stake was an obvious one. Nicky Shih had been tracking communications between both State hubs and, most likely, matching his master's taxes with nameless weapons expenditures. Crafty, silent son-of-a-bitch financier said "goodwill," but he was proposing this: blood money to support a man who might one day kick Abrams's throne out from under him. Bills with no puppeteer strings and no Hollywood monitors would spark staying power, shield Rodriguez's force from the firing squad attrition Isaac gladly let eat them, maybe grant enough traction to keep right on marching once their multitude of enemies had been whipped back east. It was a motion to subvert this insidious tightrope act… the back-and-forth control Baron Hollywood was so _sure_ he had these nights. Shih wanted nothing more than to scratch his supervisor's name out right after Sebastian LaCroix's. And he was willing to break laws, ethics and a few dividends for that possibility.

Nines didn't believe the goodwill sentiment any more than the plotter who cast it. Nicky Shih's recompense for this side-deal would be a sector safe from Camarilla bartering – one avaricious suits could not penetrate with loan forgiveness or forked tongues at his expense. And, most likely: a seat at its head.

Rodriguez did not care about seats in Hollywood, Toreador Jyhad or advisory committees. Those debauched artistes were all the same fraud to him. He _cared_ about the right Isaac Abrams planned to rip from him, and the holds it would destroy.

"You have my attention," Baron Central said, and removed himself from the table. Hazardous interest and cynicism opened to listening ears. "Make your bid."

But there was no negotiating or price-settling done. There were no contracts or witnesses or addendums, no outdated rituals of executive camaraderie. No one handed him a pen and warm document. Shih merely set a briefcase on the table – discreet, buckled, adamant. Rodriguez eyed it dismissively. "If you think I'm going to sign a form on this, you are sorely mistaken."

The Toreador gave a small smile.

And he slid it – the entire thing – across that long stretch of stained wood.

Nines halted the case with one hand. It felt cold and corporate-issue. Metal snaps clinked beneath the sudden weight of his palm, clapped flat on the hood; he twisted it around and unclasped both.

It was full of money.

Rodriguez said nothing, but he must've stared into that suitcase a little too long – with a little too much focus – because Niky Shih's grin had grown five sizes by the time his new business partner looked up. The Brujah's grey complexion had whitened a few notches. His pale eyes looked vaguer under dark hair. "Don't thank me. Thank Ash Rivers. He won't miss it between car wrecks, I'm sure, and Isaac will never know."

Rodriguez swallowed. There was a lump in his throat and it went down like a rock. "How much?"

"I'll let you count it yourself," his investor decided, haughty son-of-a-bitch, knowing their pact was sealed. Nines's hands felt numb. He closed the briefcase. "Should come out to just under a half-million. I figured that amount meant a solid few years insurance for you in this great race, all things considered." A wink. "Don't spend it all at once, or Abrams might get suspicious."

There was silence for a moment. The Baron did not need to say _yes_. His blank expression conveyed more than enough.

"Just so we're on the same page: this is a one-time arrangement. You understand my-"

"I understand your position. This is a transaction and not a treaty; I am not going to remember your name when the crossfire starts, because you are not my ally. You will not hear from me," Rodriguez promised, a conspirator's dark guarantee. "You will not be approached by me. But when this is over: I repay my debts."

"I could tell that about you. And it's exactly why my decision was made. So please: put this to good use, walk soft, and I look forward to having a discussion with you at another time." Nicky Shih told him goodbye with a smile – and nodded, pointing behind where the Brujah stood, towards paved Hollywood sidewalk. There was a vein of finality about that motion. You could follow it out to the evening clouds that would overflow gutters, smooth driveways, and uncluttered streets. It smelled like rain and park weeds outside. It took very little of both to taint these crisp home lawns with pesticides, corrosion unseen and consistent, unsettling the beauty of rich men's hills. "Enjoy the rest of your night, Baron."

They didn't shake or drink or toast on it. They didn't hash out expenditures and titles for a future court. They left – enough said – each back to their corner of a disparate revolution.

Nines Rodriguez went home with two-thousand dollars in his back pocket and one half-million in his truck.


	49. Sibling Rivalry

**Sibling Rivalry**

Ash was currently upside-down across a sofa, scowling nonspecifically at the neon green ceiling of this very _California_ place, juggling a tasseled throw-pillow and trying to keep perspective.

That's what Velvet was always telling him, at any rate. _"You have to keep a little perspective, honey,"_ she'd drawl, afterhours in the electric dark of a VIP room, performer's lisp eroding away from her natural mezzo-soprano. _"Difficult though it may be. It's easy to lock up and wallow in the confines of your own curse. But I like to think that we are what we are for a purpose. If you can't believe that, what else is there?"_

She'd never guess at an answer; maybe leaving the hard questions silent was wise, anyway. Hell if this train-wreck of a career could speak on wisdom. He figured it was a better attempt at justifying their parasitic state than most, though. Then again, V.V. had always been the philosophical sort – been sharing barroom theology and romantic mantras ever since that awkward night they met, two glove-puppets on Baron Hollywood's regular cast. Spiritual suggestions had tasted weak to him, at first; her search for a tolerable balance fisted Ash's hands in blazer pockets, urging childlike cruelties of how stupid she was to hope. He'd since learned to appreciate them. Appreciating and actually _living_ the woman's creed were entirely separate things, of course… but a blood-licking wretch had to take what he could get.

The diamond cushion arced lazily midair before plummeting into both his hands again. Rivers winced. It was synthetic raspberry – to match the carpets or her hair, he wasn't sure. _'Velveteen pillows, V.? Really?'_ Kitschy fabrics probably shouldn't have surprised him; this place was tacky as that piss-poor Golden Temple eyesore, sparkle-paint glitzing up a drab side-street in Chinatown. That was saying something, too; Hollywood had plunged downhill when it came to 'taste' lately, and Ash would fully admit his own smoky venue contributed to the plague. No great shock – this town always had a penchant for the gaudy, and you sold exactly what they wanted in the business, however fast your heart beat. _'Take that outdated old Asian Theatre for example. What a pit.' _And Isaac honestly had the peacock gall to act so superior with his dusty Nina Simone records and opal mafia rings? _'Stuffed son-of-a-bitch.'_

Ghost-white eyes began to roam disinterestedly around the cramped upstairs lounge of _Vesuvius_, tiring of playing catch with himself. He could hear crowds thinning downstairs; ample experience both as a manager and club-hopper told him that even the rowdiest hordes dropped off once 4:00 AM rolled around. There were always a few resolute stragglers, though, and Miss Velour's hospitality policy kept at least two girls working her poles downstairs until daylight breached the patchy conifers. She was long gone by then, naturally. V.V. trusted her employees to prevent any major blowouts; her codes of conduct were simple, but strict enough that only a few made it into his surrogate sibling's coveted inner circle of good faith. This shrewd streak always made Rivers smile. Benefactor she was… but V was by no means the naïve, heartbroken little artist she'd have customers believe.

Plush was beginning to itch, tiny fibers sticking to his jacket. He studied the bulb-lit staff posters plastered around Velvet's dressing room with bored indifference. All beautiful, face and body. No surprise there. All ranged methodically from A-D in cup size, too – another predictable aspect, Ash noted with a private snicker. _'Old V. always did like to flaunt the biggest rack in the joint.' _It was probably a marketing scheme – another attribute to highlight the establishment's mistress-in-chief as top-kick – but that didn't mean Rivers couldn't laugh at an obvious stripper hierarchy. Damn, she hired 'em toddler-faced these nights. Then again… what did pictures really show on the cusp of a new millennium? Likely Photoshopped to iron out every feather-light sign of age. Ash wasn't sure; he hadn't spared the floor-one entertainers so much as a passing glance.

The Toreador would've liked to explain his intense aversion to the _LA After Dark_ with that casual, clichéd adage: _everything_ got tiresome, eventually. Fast cars, spotlights, million-plus net worth entourages, passing out in private jets, LSD drips… they'd all just dissolve one day into a monotone backdrop for anyone, Kindred or kine. _'As if it was that uncomplicated.'_ A nice thought – a comforting security blanket of a thought – was all this pithy explanation amounted to. He wasn't Velvet; he knew what the problem was; there was no use dressing up dead passions with fake insight.

Ash wasn't tired. Ash was _sick_. Sick of women, sick of sweat, sick of camera flash and fruity liquor named for sex acts – sick of bellybuttons cupping strobe lights, of dumb sixteen-year-olds breaking their ankles on Go-Go boots and calling paramedics, of leather orange tan lotion – sick of nicotine sitting unsatisfactorily upon his tonsils and sick of gasoline spilt on unlighted parking garages.

Most of all, though… most of all: sick of that sick old man.

God, _yes_ – he wanted center stage back, an undeserved stab at redeeming his wasted career. But it wasn't just that. If it were as easy as jumping disguised into someone's audition and dropping monologues, Rivers would've found a modest outlet to salve these wounds. Isaac couldn't understand. He sensed the hole yawning in his Childe's core and yearned to fill it with something – money, ritzy beachfront condos, this fucking A-list boulevard nightclub. The Baron presented him with peace offerings uncounted… and to what end? Maybe he didn't want to understand. Celebrity-status had been a sweet maiden mind-fuck, but Ash didn't need _it_. Hell, he wasn't sure what there was left of fame for someone like him. He just needed. _Period_. Don't ask him what that meant, exactly, because the right words didn't exist. He needed to live – to do anything but linger on in immortality waiting for a gruesome end. He wanted to get dizzy and watch static fizzle into view when holding his breath. He wanted to toss back a whiskey sour and feel too much lemon juice ulcer his throat. That was all. Was that too much to fucking ask?

'_Apparently so,'_ reason reminded, a crude and unsympathetic asshole._ 'At least not without dry-heaving for an hour afterwards.'_

One hand raked through his upside-down chestnut mop – a trademark does-its-own-style mess – fingers tugging. Rivers didn't bother with primping to clean-cut status anymore. Fuck it. Honestly – and this wasn't ego talking; just truth – the Toreador neonate didn't think he could pull off 'unappealing' if he tried. LA's estrogen police would dub five-oh Blublockers and bellbottoms this month's hot look if he so decided to waltz out like a bad sixties' album cover. Part of this affect had to do with clan gifts, he was aware… but that didn't make it any less frustrating. Almost funny, really. Shit. Ash had tumbled out of an eight-car freeway pileup without one scratch on him a few weeks ago – just like that; blew right past an ambulance and back downtown, feeling like a deepwater diver – what was waiting? There were still paparazzi climbers, news media rejects, prepubescent tween hordes vying to rip a few hanks off his scalp. The burnt-out star had never quite settled on which was a creepier fan-breed: fifty-somes in high-rise sweats, old enough to have birthed him, or brainless girls so young their hairless bodies weren't brought about by laser surgery.

And they wondered why he was sick of women? Jesus.

Velvet stepped out of her private bathroom at that moment, shower-fresh, damp locks wrapped in a plump blue towel. Hot ruby patches bled into the cotton, thin tendrils trailing down her neckline and dripping liquid pink. It stained the white hem of her oversized bathrobe, a simplistic satin number that dangled at both knees; steam followed noticeably flat steps through the threshold, clinging to cloth. _Vesuvius_'s matron did not sashay behind closed curtains. Distracted as she was, V.V. managed a quick smile for her brother. Water shimmered on shallow cheekbones and an oval face, lips that were in actuality only average-sized pulling at their edges. His inverted position made the friendly expression look like a frown; still, he offered a half-assed grin back. A selfish _'thank God,_' crossed Ash's mind before he could stop it, though, pale irises falling upon two unshoed feet. Those damn pinhead stiletto heels she wore annoyed Rivers beyond all logic. He always secretly hoped she'd misstep and snap one off. (A mean thought, but not entirely malicious. The young man just hated the way they made her move.)

Toreador were unavoidably lovely. This one nevertheless would've been scandalized had anyone else glimpsed her sans three layers of fatty wax product and curve-inducing lingerie. And Velvet certainly would have thrown a bawling, misconstrued cow if she knew that her own sibling actually preferred the plainer appearance. Vibrant lipstick, false lashes and melodramatic eye-shadow caused the male fledgling to grimace beneath his usual ambivalence. Ash didn't have a sensitive-nineties-guy grudge; he was plenty shallow enough to opt for airbrush and silicone. But God, she wore so damn _much_ of it. This was half the reason why he only stopped by to see her after work hours. Bare-skin beauty made V.V. easier to talk to – less intimidating and less likely to provoke his resent. For all their familial affection, warped though it was, these sensations of dislike were sometimes so extreme that Rivers found himself grinding his teeth when forced to address her in public. He'd begin to shift uneasily and search for exists, mood darkening. She trotted around vamped up like such a cheap porn queen. He understood it was an integral part of making money, yes… but that didn't mean wanton sex sales couldn't irk him.

No toe-pinchers tonight, though. The woman padded across _Vesuvius_'s VIP chamber and swiveled into a mirrored desk, twisting at her bundle of bleeding hair. "There," she announced, throat still lisping under its stage persona, sounding like a honeyed serpent. Velvet stared critically through her reflection as hands continued wringing out wet locks. "Sorry for keeping you waiting. I had to wash the workday off. You know how it is. I really am glad you found the time to drop by; we haven't seen you out-and-about in a couple of weeks." Broad eyes, the color of glass, cast a disapproving glance in his direction. "Isaac was starting to worry."

Ash snorted. "I bet" was his only comment. The Toreador swatted that tawdry throw-pillow out of the way and twisted over on Velvet's too-small couch, resituating onto his stomach, folding both arms beneath a triangular chin. _'Why do all clubs insist on making their furniture uncomfortable as all hell?'_ Who knew. "You act like the Society could actually coordinate long enough for a sting on Hollywood. My place is clear. Has been for almost a year now," Rivers promised V.V.'s back, sloping shoulder blades hidden by the dye-speckled wrap. There'd been a light hunter scare around his sister's scene last December; she'd upturned a pistol in a new dancer's locker and fired her on-spot. Ordinance of any kind was strictly forbidden in _Vesuvius_ – mostly because guns made V. squeamish as all hell – but Ash still didn't see how some stripper stashing heat under a combination Baldwin pinned her as an exterminator. Ah, well. At least it was taken care of.

Velvet sighed, pulling the rag from her mane to let it tumble in moist strips. She scraped open the middle drawer and shuffled through perfumed lotion bottles until finding a comb. "Maybe. I still think you ought to be careful, sweetheart. The Los Angeles Brujah were hit fairly hard."

"That was back in July," the actor began to protest, but she cut him off with a skeptical look, plastic brush teeth raking painfully through tangles.

"And they still haven't recovered. Isaac says the frontline troops are functioning at half-strength and he mentioned something very strange to me just yesterday – something about the Hallowbrook pack mobilizing. Prince LaCroix and Sabbat circling the battlefield… I'm not sure how Rodriguez is planning to cope." Velvet turned the chair around, angular ankles rotating with its screws. She cast a hooded glance at Ash; thread-thin eyebrows forked upwards when it became clear her fellow Toreador's expression clocked in at blasé. "You know how bloodshed can trickle down to the sidelines. I don't think it qualifies as paranoia if we both make a point to keep our eyes open until this mess settles down. That's what I wanted to speak with you about tonight."

The young Artiste gave a shrug-and-nod, brushing her caution off but not seeing any purpose in quarreling over basic advice. One full summer had passed since standoffish Childe approached Sire; Rivers heard of the unrest downtown only through inferences, information sifted from bartender gossip. Concerning, sure… but not particularly his business. Ash sympathized with the heady, unthinking iconoclast passion of that movement, if not so much with their spokesman. There was a certain romanticism to the wild impracticality of those principles – and that _name_, God!: "free-living dead?" How did one top that table opener? It was all formulaic Jyhad once you scratched through the surface, of course; idealists-turned-generals could churn rebel hate into a powerful private army. Isaac made this arrangement clear: vaunted Anarch headmen the world-over demanded a very special breed of idiot to fuel their self-righteous marches. Rodriguez was a cunning brute driven by bad aims and dangerous truces. Baron Hollywood was a rotten sponsor using Brujah hatreds to forward his own goals. Blood washed up from the gutters wherever that clan dug in its heels; they perpetuated short, violent afterlives with gunpowder and dissenter strife.

Shit, though – still sounded more interesting than atrophy in the smoke of a tourist bar.

"Isaac was very unhappy when you didn't make the security meetings last month," Velvet continued, hair combed into a sleek maroon curtain. She wound it into a spiral which was then tucked neatly over one shoulder. "You should give him a chance, dear. You really should. And if you're not going to open yourself to genuinely knowing each other again, you at _least_ need to find a place where you can speak directly to one another. It's dangerous not to."

"For who?" Rivers snapped, an irate catch in his throat. "Did he feed you those lines?"

The five-second sharpness that knifed through V.V.'s calm revealed both offense and guilt. Ash had to resist the temptation to tear into them – manipulative patron and debt-blind mouthpiece. _'Not as if this wasn't the typical pattern, though.'_ Insulting his sister would've done no good… and she got emotional when he began venting treason towards their Sire.

"Look, V. I'm not going to talk about this," he insisted, leaving no room for debate. "If Isaac needs to direct me, tell him to send a minion. As usual."

She stared at the implacable Toreador for a few minutes, blinking once, before turning back to her desk. "Fine."

She was Isaac's creature, V. – she was Isaac's from the genuine blond roots of her crown to the nails on her toes. But then again, so was he.

Ash pushed out a sigh and dropped his face wearily into that ridiculous sofa, neck sore. God, it was hideous – smelled like discount polyester mixed with molten horse glue – and made the vampire's head ache. He shouldn't have been as repulsed, considering that Hollywood was the West's big-fish manufacturer of everything vulgar, gilded, false and overpriced. V.'s classless skin-joint fit right in. Affection aside, Rivers realized how cheaply seductive his sibling behaved and how laughably poor her taste really was. Stepping into _Vesuvius_ was like chasing Pop Rocks with sulfuric acid. The sight of it never failed to fill him with wicked, self-absorbed pulses of superiority. This haughty sensation was immediately followed by a tonic of confusion and bitterness.

Why compete? Why the fuck even care?Ash knew Velvet loved him in a narcissistic mother-sister manner – and was pretty sure he loved her, too. So what was the sense in circling upon one another like flesh-hungry newborn sharks whenever business matters cropped up? Why, for the love of God, did they participate in Abrams's vicious family blood-contest: tortured artisan against amateur beauty?

Rivers didn't know. The word "Sire" meant nothing to him; it sounded like something archaic and overstated, a page fallen out of some star-crossed playwright's script. He'd never catered to the man's whims. He'd certainly never bowed over whenever the senile, depraved voyeur demanded some unscheduled entertainment. No, this Alonso's son had cut his marionette strings since that first big-screen premiere. He didn't waste time trying to figure out why their Cainite father derived so much pleasure from kicking back to watch this twisted commercial war set off like firecrackers between his Childer. A male vampire's virility was one of the first things to hit that old biblical curse chopping block. Maybe that was the source of all this dramaturge bullshit. Pitting his heirs apparent – blood-son and charity-case – against one another in a petty scrabble for the withering Baron's approval gave Isaac a fucking power hard-on. Real King Lear-level shit. Maybe it got the overlord stage-patron off to watch them squirm. Jesus _Christ_, Ash hated that pathetic, wrinkled bastard so much it hurt to breathe.

'_Well, then. I guess it's a damn good thing I don't really have to.'_

Did Isaac love them? Isaac loved them when he could control them. He loved his self-obsessed infatuation with Ash Rivers when living vicariously through the unproven young actor was still an option. He loved that a bleeding-heart V.V. worshipped the very ground her patriarch walked on. Baron Hollywood loved exactly what he wanted to see in his new twenty-first century brood – the shapeable qualities, soft as carving marble; the weakness that meant they needed him; the unmined talent – without regard for trivialities. They weren't children. They were wind-up dolls.

"Well, I can't make you talk to me, darling. It's getting close to morning, anyway; if there's nothing else, think I'll go home," Velvet decided. He could hear the stiffness in her voice, recognized it as anger. V. didn't give him the satisfaction of a wrinkled brow, however. She stood in one lithe and resolute motion, striding towards the coat hanger and retrieving her trench, allowing him nothing but a sallow length of displeased back. The robe crumpled off and was replaced with thick black hide. Geisha-cold and comfortable in her nudity, the Toreador didn't rush or shrink from unflattering overhead light. No need to bother with clothes. Ten silver buttons sealed wide lapels up a tall white neck.

"Yeah. Think I am, too. Want me to dive you?" Ash offered, rolling off the couch in an unfazed thump of limbs. Fashion-shimmer stuck to his sports jacket. He tried to dust it away without much success, annoyed.

"That's sweet. But no thank you, honey. You just get back to where you need to be. I'll take a cab."

She double-checked the bath spigot and flipped off every bulb before steering Rivers outside by a gentlemanly arm. From neon runways to a litter-clogged parking lot, _Vesuvius_'s staff exit was the least glamorous stretch of the night. They parted there as per their custom – defeatist camaraderie, conflicting affection and resignation sealed with a familial kiss.

"_Someday you're going to have let it go, Nathan,"_ Velvet had said, pressing cool thumb-pads into the dark grooves beneath her brother's sunken eyes. Ash swallowed the butterfly counsel like cough syrup.

Hell, maybe she was right. Or maybe not. Maybe V. was just as full of self-serving shit as the pimp who reined her in. But _if_ she was wrong – if the destructive loop of Childe-hating-Sire was a lackluster reaction to something _necessary_ – what did it mean for him? What did it mean for her?

With nothing left of his mortal life – fleeting as it had been gold – maybe hating Isaac was all Ash had to hang onto. Maybe it was a possibility, remote and clichéd, worth thinking through. Maybe this all could make sense with a little perspective. Maybe he'd smoke on it.

Maybe some other night.


	50. Denouement in Horto

**Dénouement in Horto**

"_Chicago is an October sort of city even in spring."  
_– _Nelson Algren_

* * *

Serena had thought about it for a long time (Ventrue were prone to obsessing, mind you) and yet she couldn't conclude whether or not Los Angeles really wanted her back.

It was October the fourth – not July, not August, not even Indian summer September – when Ms. Woeburne's answering machine finally picked up a decisive message from Beckett. She'd been hitherto in contact with a Gangrel Scourge responsible for monitoring Sabbat interests in Chicago, skirting around the city, senses sharpened by whatever piecemeal information that stout woman provided. This was not to disparage the unswerving Officer Benjamin, who patrolled her Domain with gleaning white eagle eyes and an automatic shotgun. She hadn't exactly been pleasant – a strict individual with a prison guard's impatience and tightly-bound black spring-curls – but still more cooperative than some foreign emissary ought to expect. This was particularly true in light of how many details Serena omitted from their conversations. Spreading the disturbing news of uprising in California was ludicrous when she'd yet to inform Sebastian; her compensation for hard evidence was specifics about their failed assassination downtown. It apparently sufficed, though. The short-statured, muscular executioner regarded her prey with gritting dislike and professional detachment – a true rodent exterminator. At any rate, it suited Benjamin to hand Prince LA's worried Childe a rough map of enemy lairs, feeding grounds and corresponding danger zones.

Staying far away from these locales quickly became a prime objective – Mr. LaCroix would be _very_ disappointed in his protégé if she got her brains blown out all over a cement curb – but at the same time, Ms. Woeburne passively surveyed them. Quite an impressive little report on Chicago's Sabbat holes had accumulated after a month or two of research. The operative listed each den, collected site photographs and blueprints, tracked one full year of warehouse shipping accounts, checked phone bills for correspondence to/from Los Angeles area codes and approximated a hazy patrol range. This was all very prudent of the neonate, she thought… using lingering free-time to her personal advantage. Coordinated Black Hand movement was upsetting. Relating these events to Sebastian would be a smoother process when backed by a pre-cooked dossier; rather than pointing stupidly at disaster, she would offer strategies to solve his newest batch of problems.

Granted, Serena imagined he wouldn't shed any tears over the political sabotage of Rodriguez's people. _"Let them tear one another apart," _she could remember him laughing over the phone last December, amused by her nervous accounts of rising Sabbat/Anarch violence in London. His Childe's fingers wound knots in her receiver cord while colonial Sire chuckled at a desk half the world away. _"It is our duty to keep this racket to a minimum, true enough – but occasionally, the mutts see fit to purge themselves. Avoid sticking your head through windows during a firefight, and the Camarilla's purposes will be served just the same."_

Sound advice, but Serena kept at her investigation. Gathering data was therapeutic to wounded Ventrue pride. More importantly, it kept her busy – prevented the woman's circling mind from picking itself to mush.

This task absorbed her September. It was _October_ now – autumn broke in its running shoes, toting with it a knifelike Halloween chill – and Ms. Woeburne began to worry in earnest. She had still not heard from Mr. LaCroix. And, while newfound independence left her somewhat adrift, the Foreman wondered if it all might be a clever illusion. Perhaps he'd sent a spy to keep tabs on her? Exiling an esteemed employee and then ordering them shadowed did seem like a signature Sebastian thing to do. She wasn't nearly gullible (or idiotic) enough to assume their disgruntled Prince would rely solely upon his progeny's mediocre negotiation skills, either. The prospect of every fumble being shuffled back to headquarters was highly disturbing to Serena. Some unseen informant might ferret out her quiet correspondence with Nines Rodriguez; even scarier, Beckett might've merrily passed around the Sabbat news without telling his new associate. _'No,'_ business sense insisted with all the confidence it could muster. _'If that were the case, I'd already be dead. And there's no spy; for whatever reason, the sarcophagus operation is far too classified. Mr. LaCroix wouldn't trust this mission to just anyone… certainly not some slinking mercenaries. He said so himself. It has to be me. Only me.'_

The speech sounded so delusional and narcissistic – even as an unspoken whisper – that Ms. Woeburne bit down hard upon her own tongue. _All right._ Perhaps there was a spy; perhaps not. Serena's logos would be hoping for the latter, but these attempts to convince herself of true aloneness were accompanied by an odd, unhappy breath of discontent. She felt unloved. It may have jeopardized her position next to Sebastian – let alone her health – but the possibility of some corporate stalker mailing their master daily _Woeburne Updates _was a strange comfort. The Prince might've been furious, might've lost a good measure of faith in her. But at least that would mean he cared.

'_I'm sick,'_ Serena decided, snorted, and threw her glasses onto The Drake's mahogany lobby bar.

Precisely _why _was a Childe of Sebastian LaCroix lounging about in the drinking hole of her chosen hotel – laptop spread over a dainty sheet of napkins, back erect, nose turned up at its general depressing mood – you might ask? The answer embarrassed her. And it most definitely annoyed this young Ventrue, who'd spent the larger part of her Kindred existence dining on pedigree vessels who'd made a profession of bearing their necks. Alas, as attentive as they were, the staff here did not specialize in commissioning blood-dolls. On the upside, this ritzy venue's usual clientele was upscale enough that Ms. Woeburne could locate at least one moneyed chump per night capable of sustaining her. (Yes, Serena liked _entrepreneurs_... practical tastes for corporate vampires, and one her Sire prompted because it was convenient for both of them.) Overseas businessmen were often both so egotistical and sexually wandering that seducing them upstairs didn't require much effort on her behalf. A flattering comment, lashy wink, and _presto_: champagne in a three-button power-suit. Sleeping pills in cola glasses were used when necessary; suspicious stains were bleached away. She didn't like to be so finicky about eating, really – and hadn't been in life – but cheap swill did nothing for her clan but turn their stomachs.

Feeding frequently so close to one's home could quickly turn precarious, yet Serena wasn't overly concerned. She behaved charily enough to avoid Masquerade violations. The bartenders were beginning to shoot her judgmental looks, but being labeled a wayward company home-wrecker was preferable to kicking off a twenty-first century Salem witch-hunt. What was worse: dwindling funds had actually had her emptying out unconscious victims' pockets after fangs retracted. Such a thing wasn't unusual for monsters her age, of course, but it riled this upright Camarilla representative. Call the woman a pretentious and overblown fledgling – but she sincerely believed herself better than _that_. It was yet another bite-sized insult flung atop the bank of them LaCroix's progeny amassed since entering the USA. _'Wonderful. Fabulous. One little Jyhad misstep, and viola! – from royal clerk to society thug.'_

It had been very many years since Ms. Woeburne needed to worry about money. She had departed Los Angeles outfitted to stay one month – perhaps two – but certainly not three. Deluxe lodging added up after so many nights. Regardless, Serena would not dare ask Sebastian to wire her a paycheck. It was principle more so than pride. Not only was her Sire likely still a seething mass of indignity, but he wouldn't lessen the sting of a trial-by-fire with financial aid. She'd simply have to finish this job on the budget initially allotted to her; failures rested solely upon this Childe's own dime.

At least she needn't bother with buying dinner anymore.

Ms. Woeburne finally retired – leaving tonight's catch passed out face-down upon his pillow, her belly full of blood – to discover that telltale red dot beeping patiently upon Drake Hotel's message machine. The woman didn't bother hitting 'replay.' She took one glimpse at the caller I.D., recognized Beckett's number, and immediately dialed him back.

"I'm sorry I missed your call," Serena began, skipping right over _hello_. "What can I do for you, Professor?"

"_Ah, there you are. I didn't think you were out and about at this hour,"_ the Gangrel mused, meandering voice sounding pleased with its own deductive skill. She didn't have enough time to feel uncomfortable about her apparent shut-in status. The archeologist, distracted, pressed on. _"So I suppose you don't have any plans for the evening, then?"_

"Not a one," the Foreman sturdily shot back, attempting to take pride her in lack of social life. It didn't go over quite as well as Ms. Woeburne had hoped.

"_Well, I'm going to be downtown shortly,"_ Beckett continued, not particularly caring whether or not she fidgeted on the other line._ "Some personal work to see to. Why don't you take the number six bus and meet me at the intersection of Roosevelt Road and Columbus Drive?"_

The Ventrue grabbed for a pen and marked an inky blue _#6 Rsvlt/Clmb_ over three creases of palm. So he wanted to rendezvous lakeside this time? _Fine_. She'd been a bit twitchy today, anyway, and a popular locale might decrease the chances of another attack. Gangrel Elders were more than capable of defending some wayward Camarilla crony, of course… but Serena didn't like taking unnecessary risks – and she'd absolutely no guarantee that the infamous Beckett would, in fact, deem her worthy of protecting should need arise. Ms. Woeburne was not planning on venturing outdoors again without a concealed weapon any time soon. "I can do that. Is there anything in particular I should bring along? No news on the Ankaran Sarcophagus you don't already know, I'm afraid." She removed the computer from its cloth carrier and replaced it with her Kahr.

"_Just your sunny disposition, I'm sure." _(Serena nearly snorted "yeah, right" aloud.)_ "Fortunately, it's late enough that public transport should be reasonably on-track… so I'll expect to convene with you in ninety minutes, more or less."_

"All right. I'll see you there," Woeburne promised, and she did.

**II.**

Wedging herself through the sardine can of city bus and out onto Chicago pavement, Serena was left standing just outside Lake Michigan's museum campus.

Tall bleached architecture, classical style, stood stark against field of bare green grass. There seemed to be no shadows, but at this hour, everything was backlit purple – the deep, undulating glow of water at night. Shade trees peppered the shoreline, framing art projects, benches and playground equipment; they stretched between building doorsteps with little reticence. Large silhouettes cut through darkening sky. The list was short – in stately, tea-drinking erudite fashion: Aquarium, Field Museum, and that telltale copper dome of a pretentious Planetarium. No doubt a thoroughly packed area in daylight hours. Clever move, the Ventrue noted… cramming an entire city's worth of intellectual attractions into one Athenian stretch of Astroturf. Nine o'clock, however, saw these flowered paths and brick underpasses untraveled; rolling knells were left unoccupied; exhibit doors had closed long ago. Gulls tittered occasionally by Navy Pier, fickle voices riding high on the late evening breeze. Early October turned the otherwise clear weather somewhat chilly; Ms. Woeburne, mostly unaffected, missed her scarf as she rounded an unlocked iron fence and sought out somewhere to sit.

Bench metal felt uncomfortably cold through her thin slacks, and Serena crossed a leg to minimize contact. Beckett was nowhere in sight. There wasn't much to look at beyond all this bloody park scenery, actually; while the operative had nothing against parks in general, she despised their usual crowds. Children were simply not her cup of joe. Ms. Woeburne had a cousin born once, Aunt Tabby's dimpled daughter, her first year at university. Trips home meant trying to hold the clambering thing – slightly away from herself, shirt straight, smell of mashed potatoes and ground pear unpleasant even then. Fat and blonde-tuffed girl had cried whenever she'd come near. Tabatha swept in with claims that whatever perfume she wore must be disturbing to ickle Suzanne, but Serena recognized this for what it was: the child was scared of her. It did not like the way she touched it, how cold her hands were. And Ms. Woeburne was not sure _she_ liked how easy "it" rolled off the tongue.

No surprise, then, that Sebastian's Childe counted herself lucky this colorful venue was so deserted after nightfall. She'd been foresighted enough to bring along some light reading material, as well: a freshly-unbundled _New York Times_. Settling in against great open blackness, icy steel and that persistent press of autumn wind against her back, Ms. Woeburne flipped open the newspaper and looked to one very specific article. It was a theatre review.

Serena was no particular connoisseur of the dramatic arts. And she certainly had never been very close to her namesake brother, who preceded our little New Year's Eve Party accident by nearly fifteen years. It was curiosity that compelled the Ventrue to snatch up a copy and browse for any recent Broadway criticisms. Sure enough – Hell take the withering codger, for he must've been pushing seventy by now – a familiar name shouted out to her in ink: _Madison Woeburne._

One had to give the man credit for tenacity, at least. This review (of what, if she wasn't mistaken, might've been a staged Abrams production) read every bit as elitist and dissatisfied as those he'd churned out at a spry thirty-eight, when she had just begun working at LaCroix Enterprises. Madison – who moved to Manhattan shortly following his second failed marriage – had been why Mother financed the internship program at Dartmouth University, a relatively quick drive away. Well… that and to get an obstinate young Serena out of her graying twist of hair. They were not close. The girl had never actually _known_ her sharp-witted sibling – not beyond a parent's constant praises. She'd spent her time living in his shadow, receiving generic greeting cards once a year stuffed with $100 bills and signed _"All my love, Your Brother."_ He couldn't remember her birthday, so instead sent along an envelope every Christmas to cover the slack. They were always labeled with pretty 50-cent holiday tree postage stamps and taped as opposed to licked. Yes, she remembered. These brief messages had been the only male influence of note throughout her childhood.

Madison seemed like a nice enough fellow, she figured. Mother certainly adored him – despite a stunning resemblance to her runaway husband, who'd flown the coop when his wife refused the abortion that birthed Serena. The stiff-lipped duenna would not speak of this invisible man – passed on no fuzzy pictures, shared no sweet anecdotes, did not even loudly rue the day they met. Father would always be a blank slot in the tapestry of her past. She was a suitable provider, though; Noellene Woeburne never permitted her children go ill-fed or undisciplined. They had their holiday dinners, birthday cakes, board games and weekly chores paid with pocket change. They had curfews and inoculations. They were punished when their behavior grew unruly, and they were forgiven small and clumsy adolescent sins. But the family matriarch was very cold.

Her remoteness left a resentment in the baby daughter that did not exist in that well-beloved, firstborn boy. True, Ms. Woeburne could better understand their dilemma now that she'd grown an adult woman's brain. After all, Mother had genuinely wanted a son. Of _course_ she had. The wool-sucking green-eyed girl had been an addendum to their domestic bliss that no one anticipated, tried for or desired – had wrecked it, to be just that blunt. She had been awkward and terribly serious and difficult to adore. She had been quite badly pigeon-toed and clinked about on corrective braces just into her double-digits, bites of metal that made a twelve-year-old's attitude nip back. She did not feel comfortable with the scarce, stiff hugs Mother rarely gave. An obedient daughter, yes - reasonably so - but not, Serena thought in hindsight, a very good one.

Thus the all-right daughter had been tolerated, cared for, seen to. She had been tended and checked in upon. She had been _weathered_. But never loved. Perhaps it was fair. Having driven off the affections of a doting father, why expect any for herself? Serena always thought Mother hated her for that – secretly, in the privacy of a fruitless single-parent's mind.

_Oh_, it was never so bad. Pay no mind. She was only being dramatic.

There was little point to this gritting trip down memory lane, so Ms. Woeburne folded and deposited her newspaper onto the sidewalk. _'Pah. Sentimental garbage.' _Hell, maybe Rodriguez was right. Maybe she did have a Daddy issue or two._ 'Fine, then – no more faffing around,' _the officer dismissed, raking a brown curl behind one ear. She'd entirely blown off her hair; considering the gravity of other things Chicago, maintenance trims were pitched into a trash pyre of 'Things That Can Wait.' Strands tickled between her shoulders and began to curl in earnest. Irritating mop absolutely refused to lay straight until it reached a weighty foot-and-a-half. Serena had no intent of letting it get that overgrown. She simply had more important matters to worry over.

Crossing both arms, the Ventrue's boot toe gave her discarded paper an indignant kick. Pages fluttered limply and an editorial tumbleweeded down the cobblestone.

"Surely the stocks aren't _that_ grim," a blithe voice observed behind her, and Ms. Woeburne need not turn around in a huff to know exactly who it was.

"Beckett, it's good to see you," Serena announced, flashed a small grin, then promptly stood and thrust out one hand. She was taken off-guard by how true that statement was after so many months of silence between them. Relief commingled with the light anxiety of being in this Kindred's company; hopefully face-to-face meetings indicated she hadn't yet bored him off to some new ancient intrigue. Besides, those cheap sunglasses and canonical Indiana Jones hat made Ms. Woeburne smile. The cloud cover had bled mauve and smoky over leather coats and the scholar's weak handshake was crunched by the Ventrue's.

"Likewise. I'm glad you could step out on such short notice. So sorry about leaving you clinging to a limb, young one," he sighed, extracting his fingers from her aggressive clamp, only mildly apologetic. Judging from that millisecond twitch of Beckett's mouth, Serena doubted it; she and sarcasm were fond enough bedfellows to recognize one another on sight. Honestly, the skeptical Foreman would be surprised if he felt even a sliver of regret. "I'm afraid I'm not very good about keeping in touch."

"No harm done," Ms. Woeburne lied, because politeness was much easier than a deluge of inconvenienced truth. Yes, indeed. Politeness was probably the number-one _easiest_ course of action available for a middle-child of her imperious clan. She was a certified expert in it after working so long under Sebastian LaCroix. "How did your business go? Well, I trust."

"Still in progress, actually," the professor answered. He glanced towards this wide field's principal building – a massive, flat-faced rectangle lined with old-world colonnades and lifted upon a pretentious dais of marbled stairs. It was surrounded with tents, cornered with the bones of resurrected monsters. "Have you found an opportunity to visit the museum during your stay, I wonder?" Serena shook 'no,' brows scrunching at the curious tangent, to which Beckett offered: "Would you like to?"

"Um. Sure. I suppose. Why not?" was all she could think to say back. It was not as though an ambassador in Ms. Woeburne's position could actually decline, no matter how strange his propositions were. He could've just as nonchalantly suggested they go on a frat-house raid through the nearest Sabbat den; she imagined her startled reply wouldn't have changed one letter.

"But you know that I do have to ask…" The Ventrue straightened up to trail around two ambiguous wire animals, beneath a cobbled pedestrian overpass, and past a long-dead block of geraniums. Petals shriveled burgundy under the approach of cool weather. Far across this tranquil lake, it looked like a carnival; dancing, dining and a Ferris wheel rotated away along the back of Navy Pier. You could almost hear the roar from here. "What does a jaunt to the Field Museum have to do with 'personal business,' exactly? And, ah…"

The edifice rose, glowing like snow, moonlight upon an open plaza where only they two stood. All this emptiness made Serena highly uneasy. She stared through the banner-draped row of revolving glass doors to a cavernous, unlit stillness on the other side. There was too much fog outside; its texture was unnervingly thin. The moon looked yellow and decidedly hungry; it peered over this building's back. "I think last admission was hours ago. It will be all closed-up this time of night, won't it?" (A useless question with a crystal clear answer.)

The Gangrel's nod was a quick downwards dip of akubra brim over sable hair. "I'm counting on it. And, true – you have a right to know the purpose of this little field trip, considering you're accompanying me. I wouldn't want to bore you with a lengthy list of archeological terms. Let's just say a few miscellaneous bits and pieces of my collection found their way here, and for the sake of comparison to your Prince's sarcophagus, I'd like to get one back." He noticed her reluctance physically – misgivings worsened struggling confidence, tightened facial muscles, twitched a prickly nose – and so tossed the vampire a settling grin. "Don't worry. It should be a fun time."

Serena began wheeling backwards, pupils flaring, until they left tea green cups behind clean spectacles. "Normally I wouldn't object, but… I had no idea. I'm just not prepared. I've got no equipment…" (Save this weak beige windbreaker and a handgun crammed in a laptop case.)

"I've thought of that and have an easy solution. We won't be needing any. There seems to have been – and this is pure coincidence, I assure you – an unfortunate night staff scheduling error. A whole shift somehow got the idea that they weren't needed on Thursday the forth," Beckett explained, deception evident, trench clapping behind him as they ascended a wide platform of steps. Ms. Woeburne hovered nervously at their base. It disturbed her how casually this researcher strode up to the entrance, ambling along with unhurried steps in plain sight. "I don't know how such a large block of guards managed to get that impression – and all at once, too; what rotten luck – but... I'm sure we can remember to snag the security videos on our way out."

_Remember_? That was all he had to say? _'No kidding,'_ the emissary scoffed silently, bunching up and rubbing her tingling triceps. They felt like goose-bumps. She frowned as the indifferent professor waved her after him. "I hope you're not going to jump ship _now_," he heaved, tremendous disbelief more at place among delinquent sophomores looking to steal Scantron keys. "We're already _here_. Also thought I'd fill you in on the Sabbat situation while we walk."

Worried less over actual Masquerade violations than some Jyhadist lie pinning this entire escapade on her – Sebastian LaCroix worked wonders on one's ability to trust sketchy plans – Serena acquiesced. She'd let him worry about fingerprinting up the bureau's collection and make stripping those tapes her main priority. So long as there was no traceable evidence left behind…

Ms. Woeburne pulled weedy brunette into a rubber band bun, tugged her jacket straight, and hiked herself up those fifty stairs to break-and-enter Chicago's natural history museum.

"You drag me into some memorable meetings, Beckett – I'll give you that," the Foreman remarked, standing by while he shattered a lock from its handle and then following him through.

This ostentatious structure's interior was far more modernized than the shell, which might've made Ventrue laugh; every step up here took them beneath arches engraved with Greek soldiers, helms and spears supported by Ionic columns. Inside, though, decorum gave way to reason. Fresh floors shined with gymnasium tiles, mellow emergency lights flushing against stucco. It was almost hard to see sans night vision amongst all these blacks and whites. The yawning, high-ceilinged central corridor was flanked by angled wings and stacked over three public floors; rafters bowed into corridors now snuffed with darkness. An impressive scale – hardly original, but impressive nonetheless. This place was aesthetically pleasing yet unnerving afterhours, guts full of indigenous crafts and remodeled Paleozoic bones. Egyptian architecture leant out of a trademark exhibit, cold stone tombs beckoning day-trippers inward. Two puffed-up bull elephants tousled on a platform just beyond the ticket booths. At the hallway's very end skulked its masterpiece tourist-trap: a bristling tyrannosaurus stripped of skin, black holes sunk into its immense bulldog skull for eyes, smiling with teeth the size of ripe plantains. She looked conniving – ribs built upon iron cords, bird legs posed in a slinking turn. Ms. Woeburne did not like staring into those sightless sockets, two-thousand bristling kilograms of sixty-seven-million-year-old apex predator boring back down upon its 136-lb. contemporary.

Disconcerted, the operative clacked closely behind Beckett while he wrenched up three burglar-proof safety gates. They ascended to a restricted level, seeking private storage rooms. This floor looked more familiar; cramped economy labs reeked of insulation and spider poison, narrow passages barely fitting two side-by-side occupants at once. Tablets and charts hung at every corner. Serena hugged her shoulders inward, trying not to send any wall displays clattering down. It was quite nippy in here and she felt spooked – as though a sudden movement would trigger unseen alarms. The museum exuded blankness; its hollows groaned below, innards echoing in an attempt to compensate for too few visitors. She hated this sort of anesthetized, sanitary quiet… ambience like a butter knife up one's spine. So, when the Gangrel finally spoke, it nearly sent his young accomplice leaping into an overhead lamp.

"I'd guess you're wondering what I've found out about the Los Angeles Sabbat, aren't you?" he asked, a redundant question. Once she'd managed to collar her skittish nerves, Ms. Woeburne nodded eagerly.

"I should say so," she said, conversational attitude undermined by tension and indignation, sounding very like Sebastian. "I've been watching their movement throughout Chicago for this past month, but haven't turned up anything conclusive. Difficult to access the information I'd need without storming in and actually taking it. And – as you've probably noticed – frontal assaults aren't really my style." It was a tongue-in-cheek joke, but Serena heard herself rethink this statement. From of a total four outright attacks (defensive or otherwise), the Ventrue had come out on top of them all. Prince LaCroix's hesitant Childe might've hated confrontation, but – for an up-and-coming blueblood – Ms. Woeburne didn't deem herself half-bad. She'd either been extremely lucky or naturally talented at not being killed. Call her out on grudging optimism if you must, but this trouble-bound Kindred preferred the latter.

"It's quite revealing," Beckett informed her, taking his time. Serena imagined he was the sort of man who relished storytelling enough to withhold plot twists as long as possible – a drawling, audience-egging tease. "Why they're interested in the Ankaran Sarcophagus, that is. From what I understand, the Chicago Sabbat were contacted by your local branch solely in order to acquire those records from you. They've gotten some ridiculous notion about what's inside," he sighed, rolled tangerine eyes, and proceeded down the corridor, peeking in door windows every few steps. "That wouldn't be abnormal in itself; Kindred or kine, such outcasts are well-known for their losing battles with paranoia. But I think this will give you something of a start." The Gangrel winked at her in the shadow beneath his hat's ridge. "Rumor has it that your Prince's prize contains an Antediluvian."

Ms. Woeburne's brakes locked, she fell silent, and the Ventrue stared hard at Professor Beckett's back as he wandered forward, search ambling on.

She burst out laughing.

"No, honestly," came her snigger, lips contorted across dainty incisors. Serena watched with skewed expression as the historian selected a closet, smashed through its glass view-hole, and clicked his chosen threshold open. She idled outside, grinning inanely as the man strode through, cheek muscles beginning to ache. "What is it?"

Beckett didn't bother looking back to reel her in. He took stock of the unadorned chamber, a still area stacked with metal shelves and crates spilling bubble-wrap. Must rose from every cardboard flap. It smelled of radiator dust, air-tight packaging and neglect. "I didn't say what it _was_, young one – if I already knew, researching the thing wouldn't hold much appeal to me. I merely told you what popular opinion thinks. Provided that it actually does. I'm marginally relieved to hear you're a skeptic, though. You wouldn't believe the superstitious diatribes I've had to sit through from vampires much older than yourself. Ah-hah!" Victory snapped the subject to a premature close. He was smiling beadily at a small relic in plastic casing… stout, cylindrical, finely-carved and slightly crumbling. Worn cuneiform sat behind a layer of translucent, protective sheeting. It was a stone thing – no doubt weighed a ton, despite its Frisbee size – and rested dully upon one cobwebbed cargo rack.

And, well – to be perfectly frank – the grimacing Ms. Woeburne found it very unimpressive.

"Poor kine. Their scientific priorities are so confused. Why don't you scurry over and yank out that wire?" Beckett suggested, tilting his curt chin towards an obvious alarm box. Brows furrowed, feeling rather befuddled, the Ventrue obeyed – but uncertainty had come to for a longer visit than thirty awkward seconds of snickering.

The objective was suspended from the roof; Serena had to push a small table into position so that she might reach it. One blunt heel stepped carefully onto the wood surface. Balancing would have been easier had she not been quietly upended over the scholar's comment; both palms were tentative as they flattened against cool plaster, gecko-like. Quick digits located and pulled the thick black plug in question. A tiny blue bulb flickered out on the warning device, but there was no other noticeable change; Woeburne would've likely triggered it, had she been alone. _'Antediluvian?' _This word left a bad taste in her mouth, ridiculous as the Sabbat were. _'Surely Mr. LaCroix wouldn't think… bah, of course not. He's a government official, not a Noddist fanatic. Perhaps he's trying to intercept it before those ruffians tear into Los Angeles because of some stupid religious pretext.' _Ah, that sounded spot-on. This theory relaxed her somewhat, made sense – it had, after all, been Serena's perma-incredulous Sire who shaped the Childe's outlook.

"I wish I'd known to wear flat-soled shoes," she murmured, taking an ungainly backwards step off the counter. _'At least I've got trousers on.'_

"Yes. Sorry about that," Beckett answered, not sounding sorry at all. He then plucked his prize off its stand and splintered the casing over one knee, shaking shards from a circular base. "Hello, again," the Gangrel said, giving it a familiar heft and a little smile. This antique conversation piece slid quickly into his portfolio pack, a negligible bulge against worn stitching. He patted and snapped the single buckle shut.

"Why is it relevant? To the sarcophagus, I mean." Ms. Woeburne was blinking at him from a corner, chewing on one cheek, elbows jutting diagonally from her squarish hips.

The man blinked back before offering an impishly disingenuous pout. "Oh, it probably isn't. Just a stray curiosity," he dismissed, canines evident in the gloom. "But! I am quite pleased to have it back. The Field Museum has stashed away one too many of my precious finds, these days. Nothing imminently pertinent to our species, of course. It's more like a vault for sentimental value." Beckett's ashen hand flung itself towards the container pile, grim lighting emphasizing prominent knuckles. "They've got a small treasure trove of my early research, just laying about and filling blank space… Sort of tragic."

"Surely a few clueless humans didn't steal from you."

The archeologist laughed. He swung open the broken door and wedged a toe in to hold it ajar for her. "Of course not," was his brush-off. "Oddities just tend to wind up in their hands after the reigning moguls discard them. Do you think your Prince is the first aspiring conqueror to enlist my help? Flattered as I'm sure he is, arrangements like these aren't uncommon. Almost seem to be unavoidable, really. While it's not generally my practice to cosign excavation grants for Ventrue – forgive the bias; I'm not very fond of politics – they're damned good at obtaining things that interest me. I'm not quite sure how. Perhaps I ought to look into it," he pondered, humming. This felt like a joke, but the officer wasn't sure, so she didn't giggle. "At any rate. After you, young one."

Serena led them back through a claustrophobic hallway and down several stairwells until the main levels were again in sight. She peered over a fat child-proof banister and towards checkered tiles that glimmered one full story below. Even from high ground, the menacing theropod was still fearsome… a pose to rack discomfort up the vampire's backbone. It was stuff from old nightmares; dark imaginings from youth, not treacherous undeath. Either way, this twenty-first century hunter did not like the way its hostile mass made her feel. Rather than fixate on that crooked reptile grin, she listened to Beckett's footsteps; their return trip had brought them past a long military line of stuffed mammals, it seemed. Onyx eyes glared through the vented air. Rounding a perturbed-looking white rhinoceros, Ms. Woeburne realized _this_ menagerie wasn't a great deal more soothing than the one downstairs, and targeted her wandering eyes right for a length of taupe rug.

"Why would anyone suspect there's an Antediluvian in the Ankaran Sarcophagus?" she asked, scowling. It was a legitimate query, but also useful for disrupting the godawful silence. "I know Sabbat are terminal doomsayers, but why this piece, and why now?"

The Gangrel sighed, tossing another flippant glance towards the chandeliers. "Who's to say? There's not much that slides through their eardrums without being declared a harbinger of certain apocalypse… particularly since the thin-blood epidemic. But best to not get me started," he warned, smiling instead of kicking off an academic rant. "As for our _sane_ population… I imagine their reasons equally insubstantial, caught up in superstitions from life. You could ask your Sire, I suppose. Though I'm not sure he'd have a satisfactory answer, either. In my experience, Princes tend to thirst after any object with potential to increase their control, whatever the source. Maybe he only wants it because everyone else does," Beckett suggested, and shrugged. "Gehenna portents make excellent bargaining chips. The last Camarilla magistrate I worked with had his sights set upon a Mesopotamian queen's tomb. I breached it myself. Extraordinary artwork. Very significant anthropological find. But no enchanted Ancient's cache. He abandoned the effort completely." A statement framed by unhappy harrumphs. "I sampled and recorded a decade's worth of data prodding around that burial chamber with scalpel and flashlight. Once I'd finished, the British Museum and Smithsonian ended up splitting its spoils. Unsatisfying end result. But I suppose the venture was lucrative enough."

"So it didn't have any actual value."

A dramatic black eyebrow rose on the explorer's face. "Not supernatural, perhaps, but it certainly had historical value. Take those overgrown tree trunks, for example," Beckett chuffed, indicating an enormous bronze pair of totem poles, eaten with rust. They screamed up like obelisks upon the center floor, flanking a core stairwell, glowering at the two Kindred who descended it. Eagle beaks and chiseled mouths condemned the modern world. A sudden topple and one could've crushed Serena into marrow paste. "I dug these gentlemen up in the Yucatan back in 1833. Commission from a Spanish caliph. Was that ever a nightmare," the Gangrel remembered, snorting. He hopped a last six steps and about-faced to stand before the pillars, head shaking. "You can imagine what transporting them was like prior to the jet engine. And after all that mess – four ships, no less – when they turned out to be mundane, what do you imagine happened? _'Bugger. That's too bad. Oh, well. Take them away, please!'_ It's a horrible waste of resources. Unfortunately, so many of our Elders cannot recognize the worth of any discovery that does not produce more power. So I gave them to some kine scientists who might." A sigh. The Gangrel leant forward against a brass guardrail and puffed out air. "And here they are," he mused, crestfallen, swiping a disapproving fingerpad across the descriptive plaque. "Gathering dust in Chicago."

"Why not just seize them back, then?" Ms. Woeburne knew she was missing his point, but her pioneering bone couldn't hold the question down. She was a Ventrue. She fixed things; she didn't loiter around waxing introspective.

Beckett considered, meditating on the cumbersome brown spires. Serena thought he looked awfully handsome at it. "If I need to, I will – hence tonight. But there's no rush. It's nice to see one's hard work does not go entirely underappreciated… even in these small ways, petty though they are." The scholar faced her. "I hope Sebastian LaCroix will understand that the likelihood of uncovering something bound to serve his devices – be it an objet d'art or a Kindred boogeyman in an old casket – is very, very small. Please don't mistake me. I'm quite all right with your people. Camarilla policies make it just hard enough to keep the real idiots from tampering with anything especially important. However, Ventrue are not known for their creativity… and I fear your Prince is scheduled for the same frustration that many of my sponsors have experienced in years past."

Ms. Woeburne dipped her jaw, tensed, and internalized his statement. It was not as though the Childe's recommendations would have any sway over her Sire's actions, but Beckett had been straightforward – punishably so. She felt awkwardly indebted to him. The possibilities that this elder Gangrel would ever require a good corporal's skills were slim, but should he request Serena return the favor sometime in their future, she'd do her best to deliver. Stiff lips thinned around her teeth. "Thank you, Professor. I think you know that I can't comment on Mr. LaCroix, but thank you all the same. The next time I speak with him… whenever that is… I promise to let the Prince know how helpful you were to me. Now that our business is complete – if you don't need anything else, that is… and please don't hesitate to ask if you do – I hope to be back in LA soon."

Beckett nodded, pushing himself to full stature. The moment of keen criticisms and advice had passed, giving way to his usual aura – civility, but with a falchion edge. "I expect I will be headed there myself in short time," the man said, smiled, and tugged his adventurer's hat. It was a friendly gesture. Bobcat eyes, dark gamboge, peered over the rim of glasses. "For now, however, I think I'll call it a night. Enjoy the museum, Ms. Woeburne. Don't forget to grab those tapes on your way out."

Serena paused, double-took, and a grin ripped unexpectedly across her face. "You do know my name!"

"Of course I do. I am supposed to be an investigator, aren't I?"

Then they shook goodbye, and Ms. Woeburne bid farewell to Beckett and the Garden City in one cavalier swoop.

**III.**

Later that morning – as she sat aboard a bus, scrunched between some porky night custodian and a nail-biting receptionist – Serena whipped out her cell and typed one brief, noteworthy text message.

**Request update. FYI – I'm done here.**

With that, she dropped the phone to both thighs and tried not to punch that drooling buffoon beside her in his Adam's apple.

It was three o'clock in the AM, the air smelled of gasoline and human sweat, and Ms. Woeburne was inbound for her swanky little private room. The buoyant thought that this could be one of her last evenings spent tossing in Drake Hotel's crinkly bed made Serena's throat catch. _'Best not to spent too much time on tenterhooks,'_ the woman's practical side reminded, ever a buzz-kill. Chicago Town had treated her all right, considering. Recent success certainly upped the tin soldier's independence; granted, this lifestyle wasn't exactly slumming, but being outside administrator supervision had been significant in many ways. The burgeoning Foreman learned quite a lot, she judged, in her time here. Not a specific ability or budding talent… but a _modus operandi_, as Sebastian would say: a fresh manner of being. Forget her characteristic panicking and pesky insecurities. Simply knowing that she could survive without a Sire's constant catering was remarkably confidence-building for the youngling. She did not feel like a transformed person, no… but as though an outgrown skin had finally been sloughed, scales shed after sticking a decade too long. It was a nice sensation, a too-small crab shell newly swapped. Perhaps it wasn't accurate to say she'd "left the nest" or anything that drastic – but maybe the operative had needed this trip outside Mr. LaCroix's backyard more than a company readout could tell. The best way to phrase it might've been that Ms. Woeburne felt more competently Ventrue than she ever had before.

And maybe she wouldn't screw everything up so badly the next time a serving of bleu Jyhad got dumped on her plate.

Serena clicked on her vibrating cellular and answered. Its beep was inaudible over the _'thrum-thrumb-bump'_ of greyhound tires bouncing through potholes. "Yes?"

"_Look, don't ever send me that shit. I don't got time to sit here mashing little buttons."_

The officer smiled, a wicked and superior tear across her flinty face. "Hello, Mr. Rodriguez."

Nines must have heard flame strike, because the Anarch responded with immediate suspicion and a short-fuse. _"Yeah, _hello_. This conversation is already disturbing the hell out of me,"_ he grumbled, static a minor dysfluency against the general growl of a Brujah's voice. She could hear an engine coughing in the background. Apparently Los Angeles's Baron-in-denial was on the move. _"Make it quick, London. I got problems to deal with and you aren't high on the list tonight."_

His disposition towards her hadn't improved much since their last chat, it seemed. Rather than frittering this opportunity away by asking the irritable spokesman where he was, Ms. Woeburne pranced to business without any further delay. "Be calm. This is a business call and it won't take very long. I'm sure you've been holding down the fort without me," she smacked, lunging away from the blubbery fool at her left before he lost a spit globule. It would have fallen right upon the teal pocket of her shirt. What a disgusting way to cap a fairly decent evening… with pride otherwise intact and a sack of museum security tapes dissolving in Lake Michigan's polluted silt. _Oh, well._ The revolting bodily functions of kine couldn't be helped, and there were more important concerns to weigh out. "But I'd like to hear it straight from you, if it's all the same. For obvious reasons, I haven't checked in with home-base about our Sabbat predicament… so here's hoping you can tell me what I need to know. What's the situation like?"

"_Quiet," _Rodriguez said, a two-syllable grunt of a word. Serena reached up and tugged the bell-cord before her driver passed Drake Hotel by.

"Quiet? I wasn't expecting _quiet_. That's good news… I suppose." She sprang up, right heel misstepping on a floor grate, catching her stumble with one arm hooked around a balance pole. Automated doors wheeled open as the vehicle lurched to a halt. Some teenage-looking ragamuffin 'accidentally' bumped her behind whilst pushing his way to an exit. Ms. Woeburne glared venomously at him, the sudden jolt nearly sending her face-forward again before she managed to scramble onto open sidewalk. Ah, yes… it was all coming back now, in every inappropriate touch and grubby annoyance. _Public transportation_. _This_ was why she hated being middle-class. _'Miserable gutter-rats.'_

"_Maybe. Might've had something to do with the anti-shovelhead raid I sent through Compton last week, though."_

"Maybe!" Serena scoffed, eyebrows ascending. She ignored a chrome-painted street performer and clapped through The Drake's doorway, waving off its standby bellhop. He received her ill-mannered greeting with a snort the boy didn't think their unfriendly tenant could've heard. "Well. Don't underestimate yourself, or anything. Wouldn't want the competition to think you're too modest. But you do realize one raid isn't likely to-"

"_Three raids," _he cut._ "And I've had a four-car patrol down there since Tuesday. Do you want to keep telling me how to do my job?" _

When an enemy got results, it was better not to mock. It was better not to poke holes sans sideline investigation, charting victories up to fortune or foul play. It was best not to ask. "No," she said. "I apologize."

"_You wanted to know. I told you. Anyway, I don't think they'll be sticking their necks out down south again too damn quick. So for now, the situation's-"_ An unannounced, single gear squeal and trio of horn barks. Someone's hand walloped down hard on the leather steering wheel. _"Son-of-a-bitch!"_

"Beg pardon?"

"_Sorry. Not you. Keep talking,"_ Nines ordered, but she could detect the whittled-in restlessness tightening his mouth. Woeburne identified with this expression. There was some Angeleno idiot still audibly honking away outside – some road-rage upperclassman laying on his Mitsubishi's noisemaker, tempting a pistol down his throat. She was quite glad not to be battling intersections at the moment. There was so much else to worry about. There was entirely too little time. _"You're 'done there,' you tell me. Done with what? You never said. Or if that's classified, what the hell was the heads-up about?" _

"What I told you is true. I'll be heading back to LA relatively soon," she informed him, passing this first question neatly by. The Ventrue stepped into an elevator and rode it to her floor. It was uninhabited at this impious hour, thank the Fates That Be, and she leant heavily against fabric-clothed walls. "Please be assured there isn't an Anarch death squad awaiting me. I don't know how the Pier went over with you people. Frankly, I realize it's none of my business. And I acknowledge you have been managing this other dilemma largely without my help. But. Considering all I've done to make life easier for you lately, what I'd _really_ love is a guarantee of political amnesty once I'm home."

There was a pause across the receiver – then a deliberate, gradual acquiescence. _"Yeah,"_ Rodriguez decided, almost uprooted by a chuckle. _"I think I can do that, Woeburne."_

"I certainly hope so. Good evening."

"_Yep."_

Connection closed, Serena stowed her cellular, slipped into the spotless bedroom, and locked its door with a keycard swipe. She stripped, splashed her face, and sprawled across the itchy bedspread.

And slept.


	51. The Horses' Heads

**The Horses' Heads **

_Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each  
Feels shorter than the day  
I first surmised the horses' heads  
Were toward eternity.  
_**- **_Emily Dickinson_

* * *

Nines almost didn't recognize her at first.

LaCroix's hall monitor hadn't lost her pervading aura of Camarilla bitch since leaving California several months ago; snobbery still clanked around the Ventrue in tinny bangles and smothering hairspray. The same officious tilt to her jaw, chronic overdressedness, _clear-out-of-my-way-can't-you-see-I've-got-important-business _stride and weak-ankled hesitation to rush down steep escalators were all definitive traits. No, Woeburne definitely still looked like she fell out of a _Fascist Regime Ladies Fashion Quarterly_ – laying on deliberate dark tones, knee-highs, shoulder padding and eyebrow pencil in a self-conscious attempt to make herself more imposing. The barbershop reek of blueblood persisted; that tucked-up Oxford neckline marked her allegiances firmly as a bell collar would. Briefcase bag, pretentious watch, mascara he didn't get the purpose of – all in neat order. So what was so _off_? Rodriguez wasn't sure, to be honest. Maybe he'd just been fortunate enough to avoid the irritation of corporates for so long that this homecoming didn't immediately make his trigger fingers itch.

She trotted through the sliding glass doors of Los Angeles International's arrivals lot, took a look around – wrinkled her nose at all these reuniting families – then marched off down a striped stretch of sidewalk without seeing him.

_Nope. Still itching._

The Brujah whacked a palm heel thrice into his truck horn.

Serena whirled around, a bush viper with maroon mouth and white grimace. She'd been in hailing a taxi, left arm awkwardly airborne, prepared to spit venom in the face of whomever had so uncouthly beeped at her. It took the Ventrue several moments before her offended sensibilities zeroed in on Nines's automobile, calculated, and then locked on him through a murky windshield. Her snarl transformed into an expression of dismay; it was followed by an anxious glance to and for Camarilla paparazzi. _Self-absorbed stiff-neck _– more afraid of getting a bad rap with her political club than a potential assassination. Must be said, though. The look on her face was pretty damn priceless. Any minute the Candid Cameras were going to cart out and bubble up the sidewalk.

She stormed up to his car with footsteps that sounded like slingshots against tin roofs. Olive eyes were fit to bust right out of her head. "What the hell are you DOING here?" the Ventrue half-hissed, half raged. Shoulders pressed against her neck. English buzzed itself out. She was demanding answers, yes, but it was more than that. Grinding teeth and feral, terrorized expression, London was waiting for a bullet to whistle over the runways, fork a right, and smash right through those pearl-studded ears.

Forget the designer getup and sleek haircut, chemical-sprayed into submission. Forget how powerfully she smelled of mercantile perfume. From the nose up, LaCroix's Childe looked like any dirt-streaked, paranoid soldier dug out of a Cambodian foxhole. Her face conveyed horror her lineage could not.

"You said you wanted amnesty," Nines reminded – flashed a harmless, needling little smile – and gave the leather passenger seat one inviting pat. "_Amnesty_."

Her lips pursed until they were smaller than a button on his jacket. "This is NOT EXACTLY what I had in mind."

'_Yeah, I bet not.'_

The Brujah cocked an elbow halfway out his window and gave Woeburne a sobering look. She was still apt to spit venom through that jaw clench, but his gravity calmed her more than his grin. Hee was not teasing anymore. You could almost see the thick blue cord of vein throb along her throat. "We need to talk business. I have no time to humor a scene. Get in."

London was having trouble accepting these last ten seconds of her night. She stared at him – hard, thunderstruck and blank – for another moment before finding words. They weren't the right words, of course. Cam always did tack together twenty excuses when a simple nod would do the trick. But at least she had snapped that sparkling fly-trap shut. "No. No! Absolutely not. I refuse," the operative spat, snorting, taking two steps back and looking frantically around. Not that this reaction wasn't sensible, but something told him the Prince's girl hadn't really heard what he'd said. She was still puffing, fingers flexing around a carrying satchel strap, waiting for that miracle shot to paste her brains all over this drive-up. And she badly needed a reason they were glaring at one another here, beneath the skylit airstrip of LAX. "Why in the hell would I do that? I don't even… why are you _here_? You can't expect me to… I'm standing on the damned road! This isn't the place for a meeting," Woeburne breathed, hoarse, cold lungs forgetting to deflate beneath her tidy blouse. Her panic would've been erotic if Kindred hadn't largely lost the taste for that sort of thing. "Did anyone see you? My God, why would you do this? I can't talk _now_, for Christ's sake! Not on the side of the bloody-"

"PRINCESS." Nines's fist wrapped around that neatly folded collar and yanked the Ventrue downwards. Her palms _WHUMP_ed into the door of his truck. "GET IN."

London stood there for a forlorn, vulnerable moment, deliberating on all the unkind consequences this shitty Dodge might bring into her life. There was gloomy apprehension that told volumes. She knew she had no choice. If he wasn't bluffing, it was either resign and risk long-term punishment or die immediately. Nowhere to duck this time – so he let her shirt scruff go. Woeburne's expression hung slightly agape, falling, stomach weakly sucking oxygen. Calculations ran behind her stare. LA's evening breeze sharpened a nick beneath the West Coast's gibbous moon. This woman's managerial sense of control was unraveling, and it was difficult to watch. Almost made Nines feel a little bad for her.

Almost.

Serena rubbed at her clavicle, swallowed. "Hell," the agent said, shrill voice rasping low. Beneath that steamed Wall Street exterior, she looked as though she'd seen her share of it over these last few months.

Woeburne hefted her modest luggage, tossed a wheeled suitcase into the flatbed, clacked around both rear fenders then finally clambered in.

"And my flight was fine; thanks for asking."

Rodriguez hadn't seen this brat since late July, choking with a belly full of bullet holes – but the moment that door thumped shut, Ventrue and Brujah seemed to be settling right back into a normal obnoxious routine.

He pressed his sole into the accelerator and veered out of the reception track.

London had slouched down before tires left the curbside, nose bent to her collarbone, pupils boring somewhere into Nines's floorboard. Lashes blocked safety lights from the ostentatious face. A hand cupped along her brow tried to conceal sour, sulking features from any informants lurking outside in Secret Service suits. Her spine curved into an aching 'C' against mediocre upholstery. Bitch didn't look at him once. She'd slumped too far to show distress anymore; the Anarch imagined Woeburne's horrible posture was an attempt to go unnoticed, because it certainly wasn't a natural resting position for government officers. Polished nails sunk into coffee hair, pulling, scraping scalp; hanks of the stuff drooped in loose coils on either side of purebred chin. Reeked typically of badly-scented aerosol. It was longer than he remembered it being, though. Rodriguez double-checked his rearview mirror.

"Your hair's different, Woeburne," was the verdict. They rolled into place behind a coral Toyota full of hiking backpacks and shaggy golden retriever.

She shot him a filthy look, deadpan mouth and hemlock eyes. "Oh, is it? Thank you for telling me. I hadn't noticed."

The Brujah shrugged. "Looks alright."

"Thank God I have your approval," London shot back, dejected, sliding into a shotgun puddle. She was nearly eye-level with the airbag panel now, and completely miserable. Poor little rich bitch.

Nines watched her fumble tote buckles, searching for a cigarette, before adding: "Lose the dumb hat, though."

One chalk stick of nicotine pinched between third-and-fourth fingers, Woeburne panned his passenger-side window down two inches, affording Rodriguez a raptorial look. Her ugly black-knit Gatsby cap went nowhere. "You know," she snapped, rummaging through the dashboard for a lighter. A loose ballpoint tinkled inside. The Baron saw papers crinkle carelessly about and frowned, mildly annoyed, deciding it figured. "That's excellent. Really wonderful," Woeburne remarked, hard consonants like ice-picks to the brain. "I already so glad to be sitting here. Why shouldn't I kick up my heels, while I'm at it – slap on a smile – and endure your snide remarks? I recommend you get over yourself fast, Brujah. Because I am approximately two more comments from-"

He sliced her short by lunging for business. "Fair – last one. You also look like a goddamn ghost. What happened out there?" the man asked. Taillights turned his sable hair a weird shade of raven blue.

Serena's digits shook as they placed flame-tip to tobacco and clicked. "Nothing," she announced. This answer was an obvious brush-off, whether or not the brisk little bean-counter truly meant it as such.

Nines blinked unimpressedly at the road. His hands were heavy on the grey crest of steering wheel. "Nothin'."

London's jowl flexed crossly to hear herself parroted in that doubtful, pseudo-sly drawl. "No-_thing_," she corrected. Sharp knees shifted uncomfortably beneath nylon and bag stitching. The cigarette finally ignited and bled exhaust. "I don't like flying."

Reaching out and walloping that grammarian's skull into the dash seemed appealing right about now – shut her up pretty damn quick – but the Anarch realized brute force didn't work on Ventrue like it did his own people. So he ground down this urge and let her chew on silence for awhile. Rubber treads turned through slow-moving traffic and coastal darkness. She did her best to ignore him, disquiet eating up her constitution, pretending leisure and nursing that Marlboro. Bad acting. Hell. Bad smoking, too. It gnawed at her guts like ants on a dead finch. Silver eyes flickered sidelong in her direction.

"You lie like shit, London," Nines observed. She lifted a shoulder impassively up and down.

"Frankly, I'm not going to speak of my employers' affairs with you, Mr. Rodriguez," Serena informed him. She was proficient at kicking that arrogant, blasé tone back in when intimidated, though he could see the woman's smoking wrist shudder. It wobbled for a moment before she cracked the carpals and fixed her slim, solemn watch. "It's not your concern. Besides, I've shared more than enough intel to deserve your respect of my boundaries, I think. So." Another tuft curled into the air and blew outside. Nines could still tell Woeburne was faking it, but laying on pressure about Chicago caused the Ventrue to regain parts of her composure that he admired, and thus Angeltown's Baron said nothing. "If that's what you're hounding after, you might as well pull over and find me a taxi. I have nothing to say. But if you wanted to discuss other matters – more pressing, more relevant matters – I am listening."

One cough and abrupt leap upwards stopped any defenses from the scolded Brujah.

Then a change. Woeburne one-eighty'ed back to paranoia. "My God! It's so damn hot," broke through that inspiring cold-shoulder resistance. Serena transitioned from nonchalantly reading her chauffeur the right-act to tugging off jacket sleeves. "So damned muggy. A week or two of real weather and it's like I'm suddenly back in the sodding subtropics." She glanced battishly about the bumper-to-bumper thoroughfare. "Lord, would you just look at all this! We're going to be stuck in the bloody turn-around until morning at this rate. Can't you-?"

"What do you want me to do, Woeburne?" Rodriguez ruffed, gesturing irritably at the SUV caboose crawling in front of them. His patience waned alongside the Ventrue's poise.

She shuffled. "No, I know_, _but…" Whatever Serena knew-but didn't quite make it from mind to mouth. "Forget it," the operative chuffed instead. That unattractive hat brim slid forward over angry, tired eyes. "Just drive."

She took another deep inhalation and sputtered on the tar.

"Try not to die before we get out of the airport," Nines said. He looked critically at the cigarette as it shivered back to London's mouth. Physical tension broke through to twist on that bookish face; she'd choked on her own hostility, seared lungs on her own ash.

London smacked at her diaphragm, managing to get a hold of herself, glaring the skeptical eyebrow off his face. "You are a terrible chauffeur."

Rodriguez did not forget to scowl rather than smile at her sad little joke. He shoved a boot toe into the breaks, jerking the Ventrue forward and toward windshield glass. It made her seat belt tighten swiftly enough to hurt. In this stand-still traffic, the sudden deceleration earned him some offended beeping, but she got the picture. Serena grabbed at her jugular, cigarette breaking in two. Her cap tumbled uselessly onto the woman's thighs. They sat there unmoving for a moment as the file chuggled to yet another halt.

Nines clicked off the ignition for added effect. "I'm not playing games with you, Woeburne," he threatened, the dull edge of his voice hardening shrapnel. London looked back at him with distrustful, worried eyes. "You were gone four months. We hear nothing from you during that time. Then suddenly you call me, out of the goddamn blue, with this insane story about the LA Sabbat planning to criminalize us. They try to dust you, so you say. And yet you _stay_ _on_ for at least… what? Eight, nine more weeks? From what you've told me, you deceived the Prince to do it, too. I'm not supposed to wonder about that? Shit." His fingers tightened around the wheel. He wasn't glowering at her anymore. He was singeing the asphalt before them with a far-off expression of war captains kept ignorant. "And now without one fucking clue why, you come flouncing back, pretending nothing ever happened. Bull. I'm not going to take that. I don't accept censored information. You're flirting with our livelihood, here, Cam, and I have very little tolerance for fucking around."

There was a bang as his palm lifted then fell atop the metal rung. Woeburne jumped at this sound; her clever thumb, preemptive, had wormed its way around the door handle. "Listen," Rodriguez grunted, trying to lay out a full hand of cards without damaging his earnestness. It was somewhat difficult when the metaphorical "cards" were actually a hundred-thousand dollars of live ammunition, revenue and explosives shipping up from somewhere down south. "I don't want you dead. We've been over this before. It could potentially irk your Sire and it looks bad for my reputation. If you want to go home, I'll take you. If you want to run straight to that fucking tower – hell, I'll take you there, too. But you are not getting out of this goddamn car until you tell me exactly what the fuck happened in Chicago."

All that growling – all that that ominous, fang-baring antagonism – and her minion's mind had latched onto one small detail. "I didn't deceive the Prince," Woeburne insisted, pitch thinning, a belated dread. The declaration whistled through her nose. She'd been thinking about this topic – a lot. "I mean, for God's sake, I was ambushed! It wasn't as though I set out to carve some glory from the whole mess. I had to investigate for myself, and I couldn't do it if my Sire ordered me to return to Los Angeles. I'm going to tell him," she swore, heels tapping staccato into the floor pad. "I'm going to tell him the minute I get back."

"So you just came across that little Hallowbrook scheme by accident." Rodriguez was understandably unconvinced. His only confirmation from her was a rigid nod.

"You make me very nervous, London," the Brujah sighed. She was not amused by the irony.

Bullet dodged, Serena hunkered back down into the seat, arms crossed, and mulled with half-lidded irreverence on what a series of personal injustices her unlife was. The Ventrue had embers scattered faintly across her lap, two pieces of cigarette. It was an image that fit. They inched a few yards forward, making incremental progress, stonewalled by an overstuffed family van and their own stubbornness. Woeburne might've been waiting for him to shoot her – impatient about it, as usual – but if she was, gave little indication of mortal fear. Nines wanted to slug London marginally less when she got like this. She rolled the window down partway and turned to it, arrogant chin, haughty posture, Peregrine Falcon, hornet sting.

When the do-girl had festered enough to hack another glance towards her driver, she was taken off-guard to discover him glancing back – caught in a question, head cocked, pointing at his nose.

"Oh," London muttered when the gesture clicked. "Yes. Little mistake. Left them at the hotel."

The revelation seemed to settle Rodriguez's disquiet somewhat. He turned hand-over-hand on the leather back of steering wheel. "_That's_ what it is."

"That's-" She threw her broken cigarette halves out the window. "-what it is."

A Sedan gunked up the molasses crawl of exit lane by pulling over to haul water bottles their trunk. Serena, bristling but in no hurry to face that city of an office, studied automobiles with her glassesless face. The yellow dog just ahead had abandoned its attempts to nose through a window and was now barking dully, monotonously. She chomped her cheek and waited for Nines to attack again. Five minutes later, Ms. Woeburne wasn't left disappointed.

"I see you don't want to talk about this. That's your prerogative, Cam. But if you're going to do this, don't be a moron about it, and don't kill your chances to save your pride. You do not play chicken with these people. I don't care who you tell; but Sabbat ambush is not something a smart kid, or a smart Cam, keeps to herself," the Brujah cautioned, though it felt more like chastisement than honest advice. Posturing – blatantly so. She could see displeasure in the faint grooves tightening both corners of his mouth, and she recognized that it was absolutely in Rodriguez's interests _who_ LaCroix's young corporal told.

"I didn't keep it to myself. _You're_ here," Serena cracked, a sidedish dig, an insolent eye flash that made his temper backstep towards heat again. Nines glared.

"And there's a reason for that. I know damn well you didn't show me everything you turned up in that den. You're Ventrue; deceit is your language. Hell, I'm surprised you fed us anything at all. I'm also pretty fucking suspicious about it – sure you already figured that out." London honked a no-kidding snort he ignored. "_And_, this little dance to the contrary, I know you aren't the moron you're acting like. Otherwise we wouldn't be having this nice chat. I'd have just busted you in the nose and ripped apart that carry-on." His chin flicked towards said bag, which Serena, affronted, immediately hugged to her torso. He thought for a minute she might hiss at him. Nines pulled out of the airport cul-de-sac and onto open highway before any teeth were bare, though; they fell into a post-rush hour queue, streetlamps plunging into wide darkness, headlights igniting them both in swift orange as cars passed by. "You've been a smart Cam this far, London. So here's something you need to know about the local Sabbat before you do anything incredibly stupid. Small cash is not in this equation. You can't tip a fucking religious fanatic out of blowing your jaw off. So if you can't deal with it…" A pointed, authoritative glimpse at her over one shoulder.

"I assure you, I can deal with it," she shot back automatically. A harsher retort surged up but was bitten down. Rodriguez read it, anyway: _"You'd love that, wouldn't you?"_ the blueblood's forked eyebrow said. Warlords never extended their help without half-a-dozen caveats, formal or informal. It was one trait where Ventrue didn't differ much from their lowborn peers; Nines saw how false council bounced off Woeburne's ego, and decided she was too old for friendship gestures. There were times London seemed younger than she might've been – thirty, maybe forty years dead – but nowhere near impressionable or trusting enough to take aid offers from Free-State revolutionaries seriously. "Worry about your own response. And your checkbook, if you're still running blind patrols through the suburbs. Those territories are shared grounds. You cannot risk setting fire to entire districts, you can't afford the clean-up or the fallback, and I doubt your people have done anything about establishing a permanent presence there. Sabbat are all about cheap tactics and wars of attrition. Keep forcing them out if you will, but they always regrow. This is something men in your position should concern themselves with; _I_ have more than enough resources to protect my own means."

_'Thought not. It was worth a shot.'_

The Brujah showcased a sigh through his nose. Turn signals flashed as they merged into an express lane. "If you say so."

"I do say so."

"I heard," Rodriguez dismissed; it was hole-punch through her confidence. There was a four-second pause. She blinked too many times. "Have it your way, London. Always do. But you know that, if they've got hitmen gunning out in Chicago, there will be more back on the home front. A lot more."

"It's dangerous. I realize." Serena's comeback was a little thinner this time – a little more murmur and a little less vaunted superiority.

"I sure as hell hope that's true, Woeburne. Because Sabbat don't play the game like the rest of us decent vampires – your people or mine. They can't be reasoned with; they're not friendly like me. They can't be bargained down. You try to smack some shovelhead with a rulebook and all you're going to get is a shotgun rammed up your-"

"NINES," the Ventrue screamed, and her nails raked. Bottom teeth crushed against top, neck muscles taut, eyes plastered glossy wide. London's taste-buds smacked dryly against the roof of her mouth. A great big fault had cracked down through the marble sheen of company badge. "Can you please – PLEASE. Just not _talk_ to me right now? Good _God_."

The Brujah stared at her, raised eyebrows, and – rather offended – turned back to I-10 and his apparent status as silent cabbie.

Woeburne threw both shoulders inflexibly against the seat and shimmied down, arms crossed over her breasts, brooding. Air funneled through the Kindred's nose, brusque and conflict-heavy. Now free of that claustrophobic flight path and its risky publicness, she thudded her brow moodily into the cool, condensating glass of car window and soaked up water droplets, hoping they might smooth down this awful situation. Tires accelerated over asphalt. Serena fidgeted, unable to find a comfortable nook in Rodriguez's pickup. She lunged forward and switched on the radio, cranking channels by, stopping when staticy speakers hit something ambient. Neither of them could have told you what it was but an afterthought – un-listened-to, ununique jazz to soak up rough quiet. Rodriguez drove on. London hunkered into her desolate, bumpy corner, the foul-tempered kinetics of anger threatening to blow out a tire. She yanked that stupid floppy hat brim over her eyes and stewed a meaty pot of resentment.

Thirty minutes passed in discontent standoff before Nines happened to glance over and notice Woeburne was asleep. The Ventrue's face pressed deadweight against the window, smearing makeup onto glass. It was a picture of fatigue. Hard as sympathy for such a creature came – rare as that emotion had been – the Anarch could still recognize being that tired, what it did to brain and body. There was no need to wake her, so he turned off the staticy backdrop of stereo.

It stayed that way until they pulled over one block down from Empire Arms Hotel. Red brick waited with spotlight eyes. He didn't like the frame of that building; it did not just sit, but _observed_. Odd expectations lanced from cosmopolitan power. This was not welcoming land.

Rodriguez spent a minute navigating carefully into London's knapsack before disturbing her. He slipped a zipper out from beneath one limp arm, peered in, saw only mundaneness – college-ruled notepad, cellular phone, laptop case, red fountain pens, canister of pepper spray – and tugged it shut again when Serena's right hand subconsciously twitched. Disappointing, but Nines wasn't expecting enough of a goldmine for real frustration. _'Didn't think so.'_

He heard a thunderclap somewhere off towards Santa Monica, smelled rain, and jiggled the passenger window's open/close switch to wake London.

She jolted up – snorting, swearing, disoriented.

"Look alive, Cam. No pun intended."

Woeburne squinted herself to alertness in a heartbeat. The loud _'tick-tink'_ of cooling engine metal registered immediately; she hustled to sleeve smudged lipstick and vampire spit off the glass before anyone noticed. Brunette frizzled at strange angles beneath their knit cap. "Still a bloody cretin," the officer muttered, collecting herself, bleary with fatigued embarrassment.

Nines gave a send-off nod, car lights ricocheting from a stop sign and jotting white spots on his face. There was a lot left unanswered. But there was also nothing else to say. Except, and not insincerely: "Try not to fuck this one up, London."

LaCroix's Childe showed him her middle finger and clambered awkwardly out of the truck. He watched her slog around back through his rearview, bouncing between angry and embarrassed, dragging stowed luggage onto California blacktop. Serena viciously cocked the wheeled suitcase and was already clattering back for her carrier. He decided he liked her better without those pretentious-as-shit reading glasses.

"Don't slam my door," the Brujah bid goodbye.

Ms. Woeburne slammed it just about as hard as she could.


	52. The Fool

**The Fool**

_The Fool is the card of infinite possibility._

* * *

Knox Harrington was very, very, very-very-very _very_ anxious.

The antsy young man had paced this scummy alley at least three-dozen times by now, sloshing through puddles and mowing down his fingernails. Stripped junker husks framed the cramped side-street on its southern end, knocked-out headlights winking through the chain-link of Santa Monica's used car lot. _Brothers' Salvage _was the name of the place, and this ghoul knew it well by now. He could see palm trees poking over gutted school buses, smell the ocean beyond all this spilt gasoline. Storage silos peered over the barbed-wire fence. There were penned dogs barking at every passing squirrel – Rotts, probably, or German Boxers – fiercely defensive of their junkyard palace. He wasn't sticking his pointy nose around there, though. No way. Knox might have been a small-fry in the grander scheme of things, but he was in no particular hurry to end up hanging rabbit-like from a lamppost with intestine links dangling out. This happy servant would skulk at a safe distance… particularly after Bertram told him the new warden was a Gangrel serial butcher with tanked humanity and a garage full of explosives.

_Bertram_. Bertram was supposed to meet him here – was supposed to meet him last week, actually – and the ghoul's hands had begun to speckle sweat. Blood withdrawal. It was always a bitch. One of the Nosferatu's first conditioning sessions had been to wean his daytime avatar off frequent hits, toughening the kid up for those hardscrabble nights when Tung burrowed underground. Harrington had proved a real survivor beneath the poor posture and spookish demeanor. The boy was sharp. Smarter than he looked, too. Knox knew people tended to underestimate him due to a multitude of personality factors – skittishness, motor-mouth, flickering eyes. He didn't really mind. It made his assignments easier, sometimes; if dupes thought you were harmless – if they were irked by you, especially – they'd rarely be expecting a sting.

So… no. Nope. Knox didn't mind his work. It was fast-paced, intensive, and full of intrigue. It kept him on his toes. It was fun, really. Scary-fun. But fun.

Knox kind of hated Bertram, though. He hated turning around to his master's sickening, repulsive, bulbous face – all its inhuman protrusions, oozing and open sores – hated how that vampire would materialize out of thin air, jaundiced claws on his shoulder, shadow darkening doorways in the witching hours of night. Funny, because he loved being a ghoul. Best time of his goddamn life; no question. But the balance between slave and Domitor was precarious as it was confusing. Once you took that knowing last step over the barrier between ignorance and rubbing elbows with Kindred – did it willingly – stakes changed. Your feet would never land on solid ground again. It was all right; it was, honestly. Knox didn't mind. Better the death you know. It was definitely preferable to sense the devils lurking around you than jumble through blind to them all.

The blood helped, of course. Blood was the fucking bomb! Man, he should've impressed some blonde Toreador pin-up babe half that much. Oh, well. You get what you get and Harrington got Bertram Tung. There were worse bosses to be had in Jyhad, sure; that was obvious. A lot of ghouls would've considered themselves lucky bastards to spy for Santa Monica's kingpin Sewer-Rat. Jesus, did he have to be so fucking disgusting? Every time – EVERY TIME – made Knox want to puke – chugging plastic bottles of stored vitae. It was like… like _nothing_; like swallowing syrup laced with cocaine. The young man sucked 'em by the twelve-pack when business got dangerous, and he still always expected to taste pus.

_Bleh_.

Bertram was scary. Not fun-scary. Just scary as all hell. The Nosferatu terrified him. Harrington lived waiting for that dilapidating monster to dissolve out of a dark corner – he was in every hazy light shift, around every desolate city bend, under every bed. Sometimes Knox's hands would start shaking in their jacket pockets just thinking about it. His mouth would dry up, stomach panging, fear curling in the ghoul's gut until it nauseated him. Couldn't sleep anymore. A full REM cycle was wishful thinking at this point of his supernatural career; the kid lurched up every few hours, jarred from slumber by a vicious nightmare or any number of mysterious sounds. Somebody's cat would jump from their windowpanes into a trashcan and he'd be awake in half-a-heartbeat, snoring in his jeans, fumbling for the nightstand pistol. The young man never knew for sure what was creeping up on him. Bertram, the Leper's multitude of enemies, hunters, Santa Monica's murderer or that psycho Asian vampire… maybe all of them at once. Did it matter? Maybe he was just detecting the premature prickles of death.

Knox stuck a thumb in his mouth and chomped off a hangnail, eating it without noticing.

There was one muffled, unexpected crushing noise down the alley – only a rat that upended his cardboard box. Still, it sent paranoia twanging up Harrington's vertebrae. The hand wedged between his large front teeth became the hand wrapped around a six-shooter. He pulled the gun out of its holster and flung its nozzle towards that dodgy sound. When no ogres with slavering maws came charging down the narrow asphalt pass, Knox sucked in a breath, dropped his weapon arm, and sheathed it. He'd come prepared, sure – but all bets were generally off in LA. You couldn't be too careful. Not with this gig.

Zippers jangled on the ghoul's windbreaker as he reached into an inside pocket, fishing for tonight's prize. It was a small envelope, inconspicuous, packed full of dated Polaroids. Most of them were routine assignments, snapped from street corners and preserved by cleverly-placed digital cameras. The subject material included their city's crippled pier, currently under police shutdown; a beachfront congregation of thin-bloods; some wise-cracking Camarilla New Yorker who lived in a ritzy condo and smoked no less than one pack of Camels per day. There were several shots of the Voerman place taken from neighboring windows. Harrington captioned pictures of blood bank patrons (he'd paid off Vandal Cleaver for the hospital security footage). He had a blurry candid shot of Sabbat footmen sniffing around the nearby parking garage… of someone else's ghoul studying locks just beside that stuffed-up studio, _Gallery Noir_.

He also had three freshly cropped freeze-frames of Serena Woeburne hopping into Nines Rodriguez's pickup truck.

The first was an image of that unassuming Dodge parked in front of Los Angeles International Airport; it captured tarp in the bed behind a Ventrue's horrified expression. The second, and her collar had been snagged violently by a Brujah fist; both the woman's hands braced themselves flat against a length of driver door. His final shot was the pièce de résistance. Woeburne glanced anxiously off into traffic – allowing him a decipherable shot of her face – with one set of fingers wrapped around the passenger handle.

Knox didn't know Ms. Woeburne through any medium but paperwork. He certainly didn't hold grudges or reasons to relish ruining that well-dressed Ventrue. But his Domitor's objectives weren't open to debate; if Boss ordered him to gather information on this woman, then Harrington damn well wouldn't argue. He'd already almost royally blown it with Lily a few months ago and being so sloppily uncovered had been a massive stab at his confidence. Whatever the Nosferatu wanted these photos for was good enough for his fearful ghoul.

The kid had taken a breath, scratched through prickly hair, and gnawed all the cuticles off his left hand before he stalked around a city garbage can and into Bertram Tung.

It was instant – instinct. Knox's mouth dropped open and his body skidded backwards, lungs pumping up a scream before yellow eyes could recognize their master. The vampire gave him a friendly close-fisted sock to the solar plexus to keep Harrington from attracting attention. Sure enough, that horrified screech caught in his throat and dissolved, airways diverted to gulping for oxygen. Boy doubled over, clutching his gut. Bertram laughed and gave the poor wired-up son-of-a-bitch a minute to compose himself.

"Suck it up, lick. Grow a pair and maybe I won't have to slug ya' anymore," was his sage advice. Knox, palm heels still gripping his kneecaps, forced a junkie's smile for the Nosferatu – but the ghoul's eyes revealed his discomfort.

Tung sucked air through swollen sinuses just to snort it out. Oh, _Jesus_. Harrington was useful, he supposed, but still such a blood-addict bitch when push came to shove. That was to be expected, though. This well-established Santa Monican Kindred wasn't Sebastian LaCroix – dabbing his mouth with a napkin, dolling out strategic charity alongside his executions; he didn't hate his pawns because they were less powerful. Shit. Bertram would've even gone so far as to say he sort of liked the mile-a-minute screwball. One had to appreciate how minion mentality annoyed the piss out of everyone who crossed his stammering, rapid-fire path. It was a humorous personality trait this sardonic creature valued… but all the same, he knew full well boyo's time was running out. Bummer. Couldn't be helped – a vampire's slaves were fated for nasty ends, no matter how smart, fast-talking or irritating they were.

Granted, he probably wasn't going to be shedding tears over Knox fucking Harrington.

"Stop wheezing all over the place and listen for a second, will ya'? I got an appointment." (This 'appointment' was _not_ shared to be a visit with Jeanette Voerman. There was nothing to suggest the whelp had been hounding after his employer, but no self-respecting Nosferatu let goons in on their personal life.) "More like it," Tung commented when the breathy human pulled himself together. That nasally, criticizing voice made his ghoul cringe into his stupid fanboy coat lapels. "You bring what I asked you, bub?"

The vampire's eyes were like red pin-lights set in a skull ravaged by Proteus syndrome. Knox watched the crude, ugly nose ring shiver as Master talked. The growths upon his crown were blistering again tonight; one, presumably the worst, had been shabbily bandaged, cotton dampening a putrid green. Pink skin peeled away from dead tissue. Infection ebbed through cloth, a strangely human stench – flesh rot – clinging to dusty jacket shoulders and rumpled cuffs. God, he stunk. Harrington handed over his snapshot-stuffed envelope and took two steps back.

Bertram gave him a snaggle-toothed, plaque-ridden smile.

"Good work, ghoul," the Kindred said, flipped through several images, and stuffed them into his ragged pocket. Satisfied, he removed an innocent-looking thermos and tossed it to Knox. Fingers clenched it like a lifeline. "You earned your keep this time."

It was a patronizing comment, said more so to scare than encourage – but Harrington didn't care. Sad, stuttering lick. He caught the can and uncapped it, guzzling blood like cherry Gatorade. Five swigs and Knox drained the whole thing.

He came up panting, grateful and red-mouthed.

Bertram Tung was gone.


	53. Childe Infanta

**Childe Infanta**

_Acceptance of one's life has nothing to do with resignation; it does not mean running away from the struggle. On the contrary, it means accepting it as it comes, with all the handicaps of heredity.  
- Paul Tournier_

* * *

Every Childe of his has asked it. Every single one.

When Serena stepped diffidently into Venture Tower's penthouse, pumps scuffing the marble, she had clearly meant to greet her Sire straight-faced. The woman's mouth was a small, flat box; her shoulders were square; severe eyebrows, tugged slightly towards their center, expressed little. Sebastian did not know what she was wearing. Something dour, layered and unadventurous. He could not claim much investment in these details. Indeed, though – from behind a large mask of laptop – LaCroix was fairly interested in how Chicago spat his progeny out.

She had not meant to do it. She strode into that room with every intention of deadpan, mechanized calm. But having been separated from her progenitor for so many months, subjected to a slipshod trial-by-fire, the poor girl apparently could not help it.

She smiled.

It was a tentative, hopeful, lopsided gesture – one quickly extinguished when he did not even glance up. Anticipation crumbled. Serena sobered, blimp punctured, attentions diverting to a fat manilla folder hugged beneath one arm. Her teeth bared open only to close again. She fidgeted. She listened to the aggressive tipping of keys under her Sire's fingertips. She looked desperate for him to say something.

Prince Los Angeles decided to show a crumb of mercy for the thing that was his legacy, and humored her.

"I heard from Beckett," was Mr. LaCroix's idea of a greeting. Ms. Woeburne blinked at him like she just stepped on a landmine. Seconds passed before some semblance of her duties, and station, skidded through those fretful green eyes. "He expects to arrive within the next few weeks. You made quite an impression, I understand."

There was silence while she calculated a response, their reunion already falling dreadfully short of better expectations. He knew Serena – knew she would not speak without rehearsing the words in her head – and was unfazed by this pause. The senior Ventrue also knew that, from their current positions, she had an askance view of his face; he was perfectly aware Childe would note the coolness of her Sire's countenance. She watched him continue typing with no tidy amount of timidity because of it. Such broadcasting of one's weakness irked him, especially in spoilt Foremen… and so Sebastian scooted the computer screen, blocking Ms. Woeburne from view, until only a glimpse of chocolate hair and her right arm were visible.

"I'm sorry for taking so long, Sir," she finally announced. It was less of a guilt admission and more of a plea. Dear girl was sounding out her standing with him, toeing the thin ice before taking a plunge. Not unwise. Nothing to take lofty pride in, to be sure, but at least she showed good sense. After all, confidence was a privilege earned only by Kindred Elders. She would cement a fragile ancilla status soon, true, but by no means had this child established herself enough for haughtiness. "There was a Sabbat situation – but I've taken care of it." A palm whapped the collection of files, remembering her peace offering. Serena took eight cautious steps forward and set it upon the farthest corner of desk. She handled the presentation like a pharaoh might a sacrifice, small killings meant to appease vindictive cat-gods. "Here are the full reports, some information taken from one of their dens, and a closing analysis I ran following the incident."

LaCroix looked at the folio before him; he did not look at her. "I see," was said, and the Prince crossed a leg over his knee, idly flipping through them. Ms. Woeburne had no commentary – not right away. Fifteen minutes dragged by like this. Paper rumpled quietly with each page turn. The grandfather clock upon his fireplace mantle ticked like a metronome, judgmental, punitive. Unlit candelabras gave frowns made of silver and brass. She stood there awkwardly throughout – wringing both hands, feet stinging in slingbacks – because he did not bid her to sit down.

She was so typical.

So, roughly five years ago, when the neonate asked him that uncomfortable question – _"Why me?" _– it came as no surprise.

There had been little doubt – upon the routine, ordinary day Mr. LaCroix first encountered Serena Woeburne – that here was a very responsive and conscientious young lady; she was every bit as unsmiling as a good corporal, wrote with speed and no flourish. Her face came prematurely dented, the mark of a critical thinker whose ideas were battened down by authority reverence. Had the girl not such a flimsy sense of assuredness in herself – such a hitherto sedentary lifestyle and so many underpinnings of self-doubt – Sebastian imagined she would have made a respectable soldier. You could infer this about his stiff-backed officer without great effort. She was grave in appearance and curt in disposition. She thought things through – did not blindly saunter into them. She always preambled with a polite overture. Diligence, appropriate intellect, mediocrity, a firm sense of one's place beneath superiors… they were all traits the Camarilla required in its servants. The immediate fact that occurred to Prince Los Angeles, however, was how very much she resembled Chancey Brown.

Miss Brown had entered his employ unexpectedly; her involvement in the mechanisms of those olden years had been brusque, sudden, and brought about by an inkling impression of usefulness. She had not been a likely candidate. She had not been a trained agent of country, highly cultured, or even altogether educated. She had originally been a Southampton prostitute. He had been an overambitious intelligencer in Napoléon's Third Coalition, demeanor sharp and unsmiling as the stitchings that bit tight his jaw.

Serena fidgeted, lips pressed into her mouth, and watched him inspect the documents for another moment before cracking. The explanations that followed were, expectedly, nothing too terribly helpful. She badly needed to say _something_, though, to retain her composure, and so: "It seems there's been some disturbing correspondence between downtown's Hallowbrook pack and the Chicago-"

"I can read what it says," the Prince informed her, crisp but neutral, and turned over a Northwest Side blueprint.

The dark woman stared at him with dumb, mute deflation. He could see her struggling to catch up, scrabbling for a note of interest or personal excuse that would appease him.

Chancey had been a bit cleverer than her latest successor, two centuries apart; that much couldn't be debated. Ms. Woeburne was certainly better-schooled, a product of contemporary necessity as opposed to fortunate breeding. She had a smart catalogue of corporate lingo and five-syllable flattery at her disposal, and she used them whenever higher-ups needed impressing. He could see her groping for them now, sure enough. Telling, then, how much more articulate the girl's predecessor had been. Miss Brown's talent for storytelling – for dressing a tale in natural tones, easy untruths off the cuff – proved to be one of her finest assets. It is a Ventrue's prerogative to master their deceit. His earliest corporal had not been a Ventrue, but her panache for falsehood had been – to a military captain and, eventually, benefactor – more valuable than thick fur gloves in Russian winters. She had a sly tongue and pistol wit and an undefined hunger for more than she had.

Even today, in doomsday plots and metropolitan progress, there is nothing more a patron could ask of his spies.

Serena Madison was not exactly a spy, but though her slyness faltered beneath pawnship and embarrassment, that aggressive desire to _mean something_ was there.

Sebastian took an inordinate amount of time to ingest her briefing, perusing at his leisure, considering the character of Sabbat conspiracies. When he had finally finished, one pale hand picked up the whole stack and dropped it theatrically onto rich mahogany. He did not indulge the agent with his eyes' attention. The West Coast justiciar leant back against Italian leather, chair base creaking, with hands folded atop a kneecap. Monitor glow blurred familiar features until all color – blond, blue, ivory – was lost in a wash of tomblike white. He was exigent. He stared thoughtfully at the digital image before him without regard to present company.

"This is somewhat troubling, Ms. Woeburne," the man began, preemptive apologetics that increased her anxiety. He was skeptical. Who could have doubted he would be? "Don't mistake me. I don't mean to undermine your abilities, but I must ask: how, exactly, did _you_ recover this data?"

By choice or ignorance, Serena took his question literally. Of course she did. "Well, shortly after I met with Mr. Beckett, the local group intercepted us. We were just outside my residence. Drake Hot-" The plot summary was gulped as LaCroix drew a speaking breath. Ms. Woeburne had been anticipating he'd interrupt her. It mollified Sebastian somewhat – a gesture of obedience and of astute listening. Perhaps she was more perceptive than he had assumed.

"Yes, that's what your report says." The Prince felt an eyebrow lift. It was a small indication of displeasure, but disturbed his little legatee. "It's not what I meant."

The woman's molars tightened. He monitored her shift in posture, registered the faint lines change around Serena's nostrils. She realized the improbability of a living-room diplomat obtaining such information. Her chords sounded pinched, apprehensive. Serena formed a response carefully, though it hardly mattered; he could not prove or disprove any claims. That bothersome Gangrel fit his arrogant reputation by being very frustratingly vague on the telephone… but LaCroix knew better than to push thin-skinned experts. Not yet. Still, the girl saw her master second-guess, and given their recent history, sought hurtles to leap for him. She could not afford his suspicions now. She certainly could not afford to be caught in a lie. It was imperative the young charge use Chicago to demonstrate her lasting merit.

Ms. Woeburne had been disappointed all those years ago when she'd discovered that – all these positive, practical attributes aside – his deciding factor in inheriting her had come down to looking a bit like some centuries-dead old sting.

"Did not Beckett tell you, Sir?" she asked, a feeble grin clawing its way through the vise of her nerves. It was an attempt to exhibit modesty. It was also an attempt to avoid a wrong answer.

You could not stomp credit due; though Sebastian would never admit it for fear of spoiling her, Serena exceeded his expectations in many ways. One never hoped for much from fledglings… but this in mind, she had performed quite well in this city. Quite mature for her age beyond the glossy sheen of inexperience. Mr. LaCroix generally found Ms. Woeburne's resilience, fortitude and investigative instincts admirable, if not very polished as of yet. The latter trait could quickly become dangerous, he was well-aware. It was partially the reason he entrusted secrets to her, but this disdainful Prince would never allow inquisitive youths such clearance without them legitimately being his own. Though self-depreciation ate at the woman, she behaved shrewdly with what provisions were allotted to her; and, unlike Chancey, was indubitably Ventrue. Exposure to real-world conflict was the best tutor at this point. You could not hold a young one's hand forever if you intended on making them useful, credible individuals. Yet, for every ability you cultured in a progeny, it was important to feed that nagging diffidence… to avoid fanning in his corporal the conqueror right so common to their clan. It was important that her insecurities overpowered her arrogance at all times. It was important she continued to love him without believing herself full worthy of his reciprocity. Serena vowed dedication, yes – but she was still _his_ Childe and for that Sebastian would never show his back to her.

Industrious as she was – committed as she was – with their people, ambitions always turned into a knife. You could not say how long one had to temper the metal before it began to look like a blade. But he _knew_ what ran through his own blood, could remember that insidious turn in his life, still relished the sight of his Sire's face – _pompous_, talentless fief – caught in a last look of surprise before falling to ash. He held that blood within him now. He would not be surprised should it take but one generation to turn upon him.

"Only so much as to compliment your deft retrieval of said data," LaCroix clarified. He could remember how mocking and placating that Elder's suave salutations had been and felt contempt chip away at coldness. _'Twisted, meandering old wolverine.'_ His thoughts were harsh, but his gaze remained glued to the laptop. "According to our friend, you rushed right off after the assailant. Claimed he tried to stop you, but you'd have none of it. I was sure to mention how tenacious you tend to be. Even so… running down Sabbat footmen didn't sound like my Ms. Woeburne, if you don't mind my candor."

His Ms. Woeburne flustered. Her weak smile began to splinter at its seams. Her fists, ever so slightly, balled and released. "Ah."

The telephone rang. He ignored it.

She was not really bad-looking, his protégé. Despite the uncanny silhouette of Chancey Brown – identical tints and textures, hair pigment, bone structure, bearing, the same punctual clip – she lacked an intrinsic energy that defined her precursor. Yes, the dear girl's colors matched, but they were bland. It couldn't be helped. There was something mildly sickly about her – a wan, urban pastiness brought about by fatigue and pollution – that preexisted Embrace. The cosmetics she insisted in slathering on made it worse through contrast. But her facial features were decently formed: prominent eyebrows, clean lines; suitably removed from waifishness; clear eyes and a conservative nose. She was very symmetrical. She was standard issue. As with so many other aspects of the woman, Ms. Woeburne's appearance checked in solidly average: acceptable without flair. In fact – during those rare moments when she was not fussing papers or gnawing on her inner cheek – Sebastian thought his descendent looked quite intelligent. It was a shame the child could not find a way to balance what handsomeness she had with her precious severity. Foremen were not very apt at harmonizing, however; it was much easier for the operative to chop off all her hair and wear dismal suits than achieve authority through alternative means. She was always attempting to compensate for her soft spots with artificial intimidation tactics. That was the tragic thing about women, though, and why they so rarely made exemplary commanders.

Corporals were a different matter entirely.

"I suppose we all get lucky from time to time," Serena managed. Bangs prickled her temples. Muscle shifted over her sore shinbones. Woeburne even sounded a bit like Chancey – when shrill English pricked itself into fast, protective laughter. Still, she lacked a certain wholesomeness.

Prince LaCroix frowned. "I suppose," he said only, and returned to his work.

She chewed dry the rise of her bottom lip.

And there you had it. The difference between them was not about powder or technology. It was not a derivative of era nationalism. It was mode of induction. It was the _knowingness_ Brown kept quietly penned up behind her lies – patient, content and cattish – that eluded fumbling Ms. Woeburne. He had picked out Serena, acquired her by selection without asking. He had persuaded the loyalties of Miss Brown.

Persuading loyalty was not something he had often succeeded in, or bothered with, since.

Having bitten at her mouth to satisfaction, his Childe transitioned to the aimless babble that came so readily for court aides. Talking seemed to comfort her. It released pent air from dead lungs like pulling the plug from wading pool. "Beckett exaggerates, mind you," she promised, shoe tip thumping. "It wasn't nearly as heroic as all that. Really, I only did what I…" Falter. Hesitate. "I did whatever I could."

"Yes," he agreed. Prince Los Angeles's thumb hovered over the spacebar. "You've made quite the habit of being versatile."

There was no looking at her – gawky, newly-punished recruit. Panic edged its nails around the woman's resolve. You could see thoughts rush behind those alert, restless eyes. She felt like a child – frustrated by neglect, forcing a truce. And that _typing_ – God, couldn't he stop typing for one damned minute? Each key punched down like a gunshot, fingers hostile towards the plastic. The sound of them drove her mad. _'What was possibly so important? Couldn't he close the wretched thing? Couldn't he just shove it aside to a corner?'_ Ms. Woebune's tongue tasted like desert; her ankles started to complain. Serena had very seriously begun to wonder if there would ever be any looking at her again at all.

He said it.

"I imagine the Baron concurs."

Sebastian had fostered three other corporals between Chancey and this grim-faced girl. They had all been fruitful to some degree; each served a function he'd mapped out. These chosen neonates lived quiet, work-intensive, backdrop lives – comfort without the political inconvenience of spotlight attention. They managed his estates and ferried his missives, kept his books and his secrets. When their tactical services grew obsolete, a lamentable inevitability, there were always candidates queued up to replace them. Mr. LaCroix never enlisted orphans as his protégés – never hired upcoming Camarilla bureaucrats who'd carved names for themselves amidst the anonymity. Only fresh meat would do. Minds mired in Kindred suspicion, tier-climbing, illicit alliances and hatefulness were of more harm than help. From impressionableness and vulnerability rose the truest devotion.

Serena had been a classic choice. She was understated, relentless, and intensely private. She lived alone – no pets – not even a miserable tiger barb or hedgehog. She was formally educated a stone's throw beyond her pay grade. Youth and femaleness aside, she was barely noticeable, really. The woman had a personality like rock ramparts. What was more: this poor fourth Childe of his had lacked the friends, family, that so often make Embraces bitter. No roommates or fiancés. No live-in grandmother or family house in Maryland. No one in the New York branch knew anything about her beyond name and face. Converting Woeburne from dingy cubicle wallflower to personal assistant had been as simple as giving the girl a purpose deserving of her efforts.

Much as any parent hated to admit it, though: Ms. Woeburne was getting older, and it was high time her Sire found something to _do_ with the child. She'd turned sixty not long ago – almost forty years undead. Already was the baby down sloughing off as her shoulder fought to wedge its place in a Los Angeles line. She tilted her chin at an uncomfortable angle; she stood with full awareness of the Ventrue forefathers behind her.

Except she was gaping now, curved teeth glaring around a limp tongue.

"I didn't-"

The Prince shut her up with a well-placed _ahem_. "You most certainly did," he said, emotion nonexistent, and had just reached for a photograph bundle in his desk drawer when the Childe lunged forward.

She stepped up in a jagged motion, somewhere between a soldier's march and a stumble. One overeager stiletto squeaked loudly against tile. Sebastian flinched at the distasteful sound. His protégé's expression was all insistence and unbridled vigor. Sage leaf irises were encircled by a full inch of white, her palms walled as though to halt a riot squad. Fortunate for her composure and his patience that Mr. LaCroix had dismissed the monstrous Sheriff prior to their meeting tonight.

"_No_," she almost shouted at him. Demanded it, really. "That's not it. I'm sorry, but that's just not- it's not it. It's not it at all. You're mistaking me, and I- Please, let me speak." Serena beseeched him like any good Round Table knight standing accused of treachery. A needless display, as the youngling's apparently disinterested Sire had made no move to interrupt - not this time. He thought she might be pleading on her knees in another minute, though. Her visage looked drained. Her voice was full of defensive, terrified indignation. _Very unseemly_. "What I meant was," Woeburne choked. She took a breath, one more useless action. Yes, if the foolish thing didn't faint right on his floor, she'd assuredly bolt for its exit.

"Sir," Serena said a minute later, steeling. Joints locked; enamel scraped together. She centered every faculty on looking callous. She _sounded_ like a woman trying not to cry. "As per my reports – and due to the immediacy of the situation – I thought it critical to warn the Anarchs as soon as possible. To warn them of any potential Sabbat activity in his sector. I told him no specifics. They were barely more than _rumors_ at that point, Sir; I made it clear that once I verified my sources, you'd be the first to know. I didn't want to waste your time chasing down a plant. I had to be _sure_. I had no idea he'd…" The latest Free-State audacity didn't quite make it up Woeburne's gullet before she lost her nerve. Stomach muscles clenched tightly beneath her blouse. If this graceless child was about to be sick in his office, Sebastian would lose all his remaining tolerance.

But the operative was still trying to right herself, which marginally regained her stature in his eyes. "Surely you don't think I'd be so brazen as to censor anything. Surely not after what's happened before." _Hard swallow_. That nuisance of a bottom lip, troubling her all evening, was now trapped by both incisors. Her arms snapped righteously to her ribs. Her knuckles clenched so snugly they popped. "What I'm trying to say is that if I'd had any thoughts they'd intercept me, I'd have taken measures to-"

"But I approve," the Prince said, held _ctrl-alt-delete_, and pressed on.

If there was anything left that his dubious P.A. would've never expected from her Machiavellian master, this was it. She dropped cold – alarm, persistence, and the sharp sense of her own mortality all flat-lined. The woman stared at him with a sort of speechless distrust, not quite convinced of her safety, wondering when this spark of support would convert into a fireball and blast her into a glade.

LaCroix sighed, and elaborated.

"The incident this past July was very sloppy, Ms. Woeburne," he reminded her – as though she could've forgotten the burning concession tents and the reek of tar melting into saltwater. Serena ground her heels into place, preparing for castigation. Her upper cheek twitched. Imagine the agent's surprise when: "You show prudence in following it up with gestures of Camarilla sincerity. And you have done this without our enemies truly gaining anything. I read your reports to my satisfaction; I assume they are accurate. Trading this information has committed no crime, then; it has only advanced the troubles between two very large annoyances to me, and in a way that is cohesive for future planning. As I think you know, surprises – even convenient ones – are never preferable to early knowledge when one is playing Jyhad. So." A cluck of the Prince's tongue. "The locals owe you twice now, and I am in an excellent position to use that relationship to our benefit. Particularly in regards to this Sabbat ordeal."

"And I have intel on an Anarch strike in Compton," was all she could say on her behalf. The child looked stunned; every hitch of her frame slackened in a confusion of relief and incredulity. That usually strong-willed stare flickered longingly at an empty chair that Mr. LaCroix did not offer her. "And I… well. Yes. I figured…"

_No more_. Her excuse banks were exhausted.

"You did a very stupid thing all those months ago, Serena," or so the frank assessment went. "You did not do a treasonous thing. I trust your dedication, if not your experience." He took a thoughtful pause. "I admit that I doubted you after the botched Dr. Wilhelm affair. I do not apologize for these reservations, but I am willing to reinstate my full confidence should you once again prove yourself to me. These past few months were convincing; it seems, all my suspicions to the contrary, we are on the right path to recovering your reputation. There is, after all, a difference between a mistake and incompetence. I think you should know this. I also think you should know that I want to _manage_ you, dear girl, because you are young; it's not my aim to suffocate you. Why would I send money and tutelage your way if I did not intend on you growing into this life? That you are now able to make sound decisions – to identify _wise_ choices – without me confirming your every word is encouraging. I take it as evidence you have not entirely put my generosity to waste."

Ms. Woeburne was left waiting while he finished this critique.

"You showed discretion and fine judgment in Chicago," the Prince granted, his sanction a tinkling warmth through the wintry character of Ventrue speech. "Stay that course."

"Thank you" was really all she could say. Sebastian accepted it. Partially because he did not want semi-digested blood vomited across his marble.

"Now," he announced, palms clapping together, attention still fixed upon that humming laptop. Serena could not avoid the déjà vu. She submitted to memories of arriving in California, what seemed like nights ago; of torture brushed aside; and the single-minded perseverance that defined their lineage. "On to business. I spoke with Ms. Mira about an hour ago. Clan Giovanni has secured our Sarcophagus and are holding the artifact in their manor until we pick it up. There was a bit of a setback during transport – nautical issues; nothing you need worry yourself over, I'm sure – but the arrangements have been finalized. Whenever you're ready, I'd like for you to retrieve it."

Ms. Woeburne was not a fencepost. She inferred, beyond his casual airs, that "whenever you're ready" meant _immediately_. The officer obeyed. "Of course. Should I-?"

"Normally I would outfit you with a guard regiment, Serena, but I'm afraid the sensitive nature of our deal makes it vital you go alone." Mr. LaCroix had predicted her question before she could ask it. "This continues to be a matter that must remain strictly between you and I, yes?"

"I understand," she said, and Sebastian saw no reason not to believe her.

He proceeded: "The Giovanni are being very cooperative, and I expect they will streamline this process for you. When you've acquired the piece, please bring it directly to me. I will send my Sheriff to assist you in hauling it up."

"You want me to bring it here, to your office?" The Ventrue's worried brows ascended her forehead.

"That _is_ what I said."

Odd details tallied, Ms. Woeburne's compliance came with a nod. "All right," she pledged – hoping, perhaps, that fast acquiescence might win her a moment's eye contact. It did not. The Prince's hands flung themselves across rows of square black keys without recess. "I'll take care of it tonight."

"That would be appreciated. Afterwards, we'll need to talk at greater length about your current Anarch situation, and how best to manipulate it to our advantage. I have a thirty-minute opening in three hours. For your convenience, you may stop by then – provided you've collected the sarcophagus."

Another nod. Her nose slant cast a strange shadow across the woman's collarbone. There was a general aura of prostration about Serena that his sparse compliments had not yet dissolved. "Yes, Mr. LaCroix," she agreed, humble sights set on an incident-free exit.

"Very well, then." He blinked. Pacific blue did not take pity on her once. "Good work and goodbye."

Ms. Woeburne stepped backwards, gave a painfully clumsy curtsey/bow/bob that she was relieved he probably hadn't seen, and made to escape. The girl did not look back. She wouldn't have dared for a small fortune – not given the political atmosphere of this homecoming. Her gait was swift, anesthetized, well-balanced and stung by his insouciance. Her stare was fixed on the door like a racing greyhound on a motor.

"Serena," the Prince called. She froze.

"Yes, Sir?" Woeburne did not flinch, shoulders drawn up. Everything felt congealed from her neck bones to her heels. If a lion leapt from around that desk and landed flat upon the Ventrue's back, claws ripping cloth, the impact would not have astonished her whatsoever.

"I'd also like you here no later than eight-thirty tomorrow night – upon which occasion we will discuss what will be required of you as my Seneschal. Is this clear?"

_Rip._

"Yes, Sir," the good corporal said, hands at her sides. She could was not near gauche enough to twist around now.

He dismissed – "Then I will see you soon." – and the dear girl was gone.

Sebastian closed his laptop the instant Venture Tower's elevator binged shut. It descended seven stories and passed through his realm of hearing. But the Prince imagined it would sink all the way to level one, stop, unlock, and open. His Childe would click across the spotless floor, through the egress and into a taxi bound for the Giovanni estate. And, given his allegiances were still solid, she'd be back in roughly three hours with the security of this Domain.

In so many ways would Chancey have done it better, said it with more conviction. But sang-froid and stiff-upper-lip were fitting surrogates, and Sebastian LaCroix would have to make do with Ms. Woeburne.


	54. The Bandit Court

**The Bandit Court **

_The fury of ungovern'd youth  
Thrust from the company of awful men  
- Two Gentlemen of Verona_

* * *

Seneschal.

The Ventrue turned it over in her mouth, tongue curling around that archaic word. Ten fingers tightened around the familiar rubber of her steering wheel, squeezing, nails digging grooves. What an odd sound. Try as she might, Serena simply couldn't wrap her mind around it, and so she said the awkward phrase aloud, testing stations like slipping on boots. _Seneschal Woeburne_.

It wasn't the catchiest calling card, but it would do.

Apart from a slight PR blip, this ostentatious new title guaranteed nothing: no influence over her master, no real sway upon his jurisdiction, no genuine increase in political clout. Not to say a little promotion was bad for Prince LaCroix's Childe at the cornerstone stage of life between youngling and ancilla. Quite the opposite, actually. No doubt there'd still be papers pushed, folders classified and delicate errands run, but she now carried something more: a recognized public face. New arrivals would relay fulsome greetings to Sebastian through her. Visitors of insignificant status would seek his audience via consultation with S. Woeburne. She really wasn't much more than a bureaucratic buffer, to be honest – a glorified squire that stood beside the throne, shuffling peons away. While some Seneschals advised their masters, this Ventrue had no delusions of power; her Sire thought of his protégé as a courtroom ornament more than anything else, another hurtle for lowly Kindred to jump before presuming to pester him. It was a rank that brought more stress than prestige upon Serena' s calendar. He promoted her because she had been the convenient choice, and because he knew his own blood wouldn't contradict him. Better than nothing, though. Being a store mannequin Seneschal nevertheless had strong potential to work in the officer's favor.

And besides that: it really pissed off Joelle.

Ms. Woeburne outmatured childish grudges ages ago, but even so, the operative had to admit she was terribly looking forward to exercising some fresh authority over Mlle. Lefevre. Venture Tower's red sting hadn't said more than two words to Serena since Mr. LaCroix publicized her promotion two evenings ago. The notice came days after he'd ordered his sarcophagus hauled upstairs, unboxed, and pushed neatly inside a locked meeting room. I t replaced the massive conference table. She had yet to see anything unfurled; Sebastian, vexations aside, wasn't about to disturb ancient ashes without formal encouragement from Beckett. For now, Prince Los Angeles broke fountain pens beneath the frustration of staring all night at his hard-won prize. Each sundown saw him grow more impatient for the Gangrel's arrival. He'd walk into that repurposed chamber and glare at its heavy occupant; scowl at chipped wing carvings and primordial queens set in limestone; study complex bronze weaves in the colossal lid. He was obsessed and angry, regarding it hotly as a young boy denied his birthday presents. Apparently Maribeth Gutierrez landed a demotion for just mentioning their magistrate's sour mood. Suffice to say, Ms. Woeburne was glad to have her collar loosed a bit… as being in the man's proximity during this irritating time had proven unfortunate both for one' s mental health and for their company standing.

Famiglia Giovanni's estate was empty of grandeur when Serena stepped onto the premises. Any celebratory warmth it touted during the alliance gala had been folded up and disposed of. The place was cold – white marble, kitchen cleaner and spotless floors. Guardsmen loomed at foyer lounges; footsteps echoed down long corridors that housed no happy guests. It was an immense, vacant, old-world house that did not entertain. Ms. Woeburne admittedly didn't get much opportunity to reacquaint herself with the premises; no sooner than she entered, Mira rushed them both off to an inconspicuous foyer, explaining it would only take a moment. They waited for servants to prepare Mr. LaCroix's sensitive package for transport – few smiles, few words, limited pleasantries. It was boarded up and loaded carefully into a delivery truck; she did not ask who reimbursed the stolen one that crashed on Santa Monica Pier. There were no opulent gestures necessary tonight. The Ventrue stood, arms crossed, outside a kitchen that smelled like pesto and formaldehyde.

Their mansion gave her a nasty _Pet Semetary_ feeling that hovered until morning, but otherwise, things went quite well. She'd returned to Sebastian for somber estimates of what these coming months would bring and a brief instruction set on The Anarch Situation. Ms. Woeburne was not very enamored of her Sire's game plan in this regard. He commanded her to uphold the prop olive branch with no definitive advice on how to do so – requested she maintain open dialogue so that they might monitor this Sabbat feud. _"Now that we know, it's not such a bad thing. A practical tool, even, in the event we require future leverage. My administration keeps its integrity; you have a direct outlet to influence their movement in the area; and best of all: they'll be too busy to uproot our affairs. Fighting assaults and chasing leads might distract them long enough for this court to get some actual work done,"_ she remembered Mr. LaCroix comment, halfway pleased with the anxious turn. She also distinctly recalled him saying this: _"It is a Ventrue's burden to occasionally humor the underclass – to smile, nod, and hear them out with a look of genuine concern – however ridiculous they may be." _

Of course, he _would_ say that. He didn't have to deal with them personally.

A Prince's sanction made the task of negotiating with Brujah no less unpleasant. Perhaps it made the tensions worse, for her status meant recognition through official channels; it demanded protocol and sustained correspondence, a certifiable relationship. This was an uncomfortable arrangement for a woman who'd not-so-long-ago done her term as their political prisoner. Yet Woeburne acknowledged a faceless Camarilla replacement would solve nothing; her history was half the reason this gambit might survive. Ventrue contacts were a hard sell to Anarch rebels – they patronized in honey language while serving vinegar – but this one, already struck, had no need to sugarcoat her dislike behind false smiles. They knew exactly who and what LaCroix's Childe was. And, unlike outmoded titles, there was more to this approach than simple convenience. Since the Chicago fiasco, LA's deseated Baron had taken a troublesome interest in Serena's affairs – troublesome, but not unwarranted – and her new job description only made it more so. They wanted a direct liaison to the city's inner circle? They had one. She'd end up taking Free-State concerns in town halls and filing long lists of grievances away for "future deliberation." Unlikely that either side believed it, but such was the way of ceasefires.

Rodriguez did not attend. That was hardly surprising. A Baron's shun damaged peace credibility, but mattered little; they knew cooperation would insult him, and their goals were never to actually persuade.

Besides, this was a definite improvement upon their prior contact. Sporadic encounters with a Prince's charge were potentially useful; persistent, reciprocal discourse involving Seneschals lent a movement merit. It opened talks, paused inter-faction violence, and placated angry Party members still green enough to hope for peaceful resolution. It gave access and it gave them both time.

The fact she scoffed, cringed, and spoke a little like Sebastian LaCroix in a very awkward position only sweetened the pot.

It was a great deal to ask of one agent with more balls in the air than years beneath her belt. Ms. Woeburne's Sire did realize this. To cover the slack, he'd commissioned a small neonate staff for the mundane responsibilities of being Seneschal; they were three interns, really, who rotated through non-restricted paperwork and managed her overflowing datebook. The Childe never met them personally. Still, highlighted missives and stickered weekly planners were help enough, and shrunk her list of the _mundane_.

Los Angeles's junior officer had sent a polite "greetings" to the city Primogen just yesterday. A purely ceremonious motion – they likely knew of her already – though one Ms. Woeburne felt the Prince would expect. He based his diplomacy upon the mask of civility and made a good show of it. Far be it from an aspiring protégé to break this mold. She imagined LA's Elder council would find their new Seneschal's friendliness both presumptuous and overstated – traits already associated with the LaCroix name.

Annoying her betters discomfited Serena, no matter how harmless the message had been… but she was aiming to appease a more important critic than lawmakers and representatives. The woman's judgmental master found extraordinarily few praiseworthy things about his subordinates, yet after so much time catering to him, Woeburne discovered a surefire loophole. One route led directly to Sebastian's pride: imitation. He witnessed his Childe's twinges of arrogance, entitlement and authority with quiet smiles. It was not because she'd earned them. It was because, in seeing a progeny's up-tilted nose and contemptuous attitude, Mr. LaCroix witnessed the influence of his own blue blood. Mirroring haughty Prince Los Angeles didn't elevate her, but it flattered him.

As the clean ousting of Bruno Giovanni had taught Serena: one rarely went wrong in flattering their forefathers.

Now: if a Baron could be courteous enough to function on that same age-based deference schema, Ms. Woeburne's life might become so much easier. She grew aggravated with Rodriguez's inconsistencies in behavior. He would be furious with the idea of her existence at one moment; the next, recognizable and calculating; then completely impervious, offhand, mocking. You could not trust or measure a man who jumped between mean smiles and sharp switchblades. It was inappropriate and unpredictable, two qualities Serena took with a large dose of salt, but it was also dangerous. Variable dispositions made a mess of practicum. Moreover, she was fully aware it was an attempt to keep his unlikely associate on eggshells – to prevent her from accurately gauging her ground – and she did _not_ appreciate it. Jyhad was a merciless competition, no doubt. But it was one with conventions, codes of conduct – the violation of which swung wide doors to anarchy.

But she supposed that was sort of the point.

At present, Ms. Woeburne was slightly stalking Mr. Rodriguez, which wouldn't have been an issue if the Baron ever listened to his voicemail. Because he didn't, she had been forced to call that downtown dive. The very ill-tempered door guard – an awful little redheaded girl who could never sit still during city summits, and who tended to pick up whenever Serena found herself calling their piss-hole – grouchily explained that Nines left an hour ago to buy weaponry. She wouldn't give directions or a store name, but Ventrue were rarely without resources. LaCroix's Childe was not a patient woman, either. Rather than waste time trying to pry worthwhile information from that unsophisticated child – a process like yanking bandages – Woeburne decided she'd fair better independently. She had her secretary (didn't _that_ roll nicely off the tongue?) draw up a seedy list of Kindred-oriented gun dealerships and text it. Afterwards, the Seneschal picked a few addresses within well-known Anarch stomping grounds and simply drove around until she spotted him. It took her just under forty-five minutes.

Then again, the sulk was a bit of a dead giveaway. He was prowling down a line of sidewalk in that usual belligerent Brujah way, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched forward, trying to be more unapproachable than a man in short sleeves might normally be. Serena frowned at the perilously there, treacherously identifiable black back of his head for a second, wondering if the Baron had any idea of her presence. She didn't think so. There was no visible Kevlar beneath the lines of simple clothing. Subtle, searching glances flicked his profile one way and then the other at each hushed street. He did not look back to recheck what lay behind. It seemed implausibly easy to pick up a pistol and kill him.

Granted, a while had passed since these two were firing at each other; regardless of posturing or clear shots, Woeburne hoped returning to that disagreeable state wouldn't be necessary. At least not tonight. She wasn't exactly equipped for it and, Chicago complete, felt full enough of shootouts for another few months.

Serena panned down her tinted window and skimmed up to the curb.

"Nines?" she asked aloud, an idiotic question. The vampire's head swiveled sharply, eyes opened, chin pressing into coat fabric, and he skittered a step.

"London?" Rodriguez's eyebrows shot up at first, genuinely surprised – too surprised to be angry at the way she'd startled him. He stopped. So too did Serena, pushing in her brake pedal. You could see in his chest how he'd sucked in a breath; these murky spots were not an expected place to cross Scepters, nor the sorts of accents they kept. Both Kindred stared at each other expressionlessly. There was a strange set of the Anarch's face that could've been curiosity or disbelief. Ms. Woeburne imagined he had not guessed to see her under present circumstances – not on the cusp of Skid Row, not after their last mano-a-mano, and certainly not in private.

She managed a weak, struggling grin to show her intentions were docile. The Ventrue's hands were wrung at a firm _eleven_ and _one o'clock_ around her steering wheel. "Yes. Are you busy?"

Danger sense narrowed the wideness and the blueness from his stare. "For what?"

Serena anticipated this tang of suspicion. It was justifiable – a few weeks ago, she'd wedged space between herself and the Anarch Party – but their tête-à-tête outside Los Angeles International kindled possibility. That parlay ended in a refusal… but still a lukewarm truce. "There's no need to be alarmed. I only want to talk, and I-"

"You _following_ me just now, London?" Rodriguez demanded, sharpening further. The moment of uncertainty quickly shifted to safety concerns and potent, dusty misgivings inspired by old hatred. She saw a hand traveling towards the man's hip and spoke up.

"Oh, please. I wasn't," Ms. Woeburne snapped, a dismissal made more by dignity than fear of having gun muzzles rammed against her head. Again. Still, Serena recognized the error of this statement, squeezing ten fingers tighter upon the wheel and biting on her cheek. Holster straps rumpled shirt cotton a healthier color than the Baron's glare. "Well. Yes, I suppose I was," she confessed. It was a grudging correction, and worsened the Ventrue's anxiety. "Look, will you just give me a minute? This won't take very long."

Nines hesitated with displeasure. His frown pulled a faded scar around one corner of mouth. "I've got exactly a minute," the Brujah gnarred, casting an unsettled glance down West Gage Avenue. He did not appear persuaded, but at least had given up the reach for a firearm. _'It's a start.'_

"That's not what I meant. Listen, I'm not trying to…" Impatience chomped onto the operative's tongue. She dropped both hands onto her lap, exasperated, attempting to vent seriousness. It looked more like foiled desperation. "I'm being very frank with you here. But you haven't attended at my forums, and that leaves me few options when I need to talk. Can't we just go a little while without all this backbiting? I'd thought-"

Rodriguez barked out an incredulous laugh. It was not a happy sound. It was less of a laugh, in fact, and more of a loud grunt – choleric put to noise. "NOW you want to talk to me?" he groused, arms crossing. Another restless glimpse swept up and down the hushed residential street. Questionable pawnshops and unwelcoming liquor stores mixed with condominiums no one wanted to rent. Two men drank lazily at the nearest corner. Wind was rippling the digits of a palm tree. "That's just perfect, Ms. Seneschal. Not suspicious at all. Especially since you already had my full attention, and _you_ decided you could do without."

"You understand the circumstances were-"

"What I understand is this: we're an awful long way from your tower, Princess, to be striking up treaties at midnight. You know what this looks like to me?" No need to clarify – she did. The stretch for that pistol had said enough. And the steel reprimand in Nines's glower put plainly the rest. "Let me make something clear. You want to snub my advice, fine – that's your call – but you damn well better not turn around and spit on it by asking for handouts, or expecting me to humor your play-nice panels. I am very busy. I am not _at your convenience_. You can wave your caveats and your procedures at the Free-State; the Camarilla can take center-stage and do its little dance because _we _have seen fit to allow it for now," the Anarch growled, as self-righteous as he was threatening. Serena wanted to glance away, the silver of his first death unsettling, but had learned better; she matched that look like absolute stone. Aggression is inherent in eye contact. Like any wolfdog, you must stare it down. "But if you want to step back from all that protocol to talk politics with ME, we are dealing with a different matter. This is personal and I don't do personal at your whim."

Woeburne scowled at him in the sham safety of her posh car. Hair stuck to a button of the crisp, clean blouse she wore. "Tough talk. But it neglects one very important detail. You have no idea what 'this' is," the Ventrue reminded, darkening that unhappy expression a few more shades. Her outward shoulder dropped impertinently. She was not exactly unarmed. "You do, however, know that we both have a strong concern with the same enemy. And you know I'm in a fairly good position to inform about said concern. So, in turn, _I_ know that _you_ won't dismiss me offhand."

"Is that right," he spat, not at all a question. The men at the corner were casting curious, occasional looks their way. You could hear the murmurs of jeering, disconcerted, inebriated speech.

"I'm inclined to think so. Truth be told, Rodriguez, I'd be impressed if you were alive and that stupid. But you aren't stupid. You aren't," she needled, faux-flattery, a real point. You had to hate the precision stitch-pull of Woeburne's voice. "Because for all this history, you recognize what we are dealing with now is not you and me, is not who-shot-who, and it's not about government. It is Sabbat. And you recognize that they have to be dealt with im-"

"Don't care. Take it up in forum."

"Nines-"

He turned heel and was already walking down the city block.

"You can't just…! _Son-of-a-bitch_." LaCroix's Childe jostled for the stick; it stalled momentarily, leaving Serena cussing her gearbox back into commission. The intended recipient of that _son-of-a-bitch_ was unclear. She rolled jaggedly forward, still pleading a case; the Anarch did not bother picking up his pace. "You're making a real mistake here, Rodriguez. If you'll just listen. If you'll just listen to what I'm saying, you'll see what we mean and why it's…"

He wasn't even bothering to look at her now. Woeburne felt like slamming on the horn and scaring him over a fence. In the interest of being professional and bullet-free, she settled for bitching through a passenger window, ignoring the burn of dismissal. Wandering this low-traffic, deteriorating strip of Los Angeles, there were few witnesses to contend with: youth gangs, the purveyors of garbage bins, and an occasional well-fed rat. Lamps flickered against concrete. They painted her vehicle neon; they bleached both vampires an unhealthy yellow. She could see one of those two drunkards stand up from his sidewalk perch.

"This is information you should have had access to weeks ago. I'm passing it straight to you because of the volume and the urgency. And because I need to explain the relevance and why we haven't-" There was a one-way lane looming portentously down this boulevard. A stupid, inane law to fret over in retrospect – she'd committed murder, fraud, theft and (most recently) borderline treason since entering Sebastian's employ – but… "It's a matter of war, Mr. Rodriguez. It's not a statement. Christ, it's not like I'm asking for much from you," the Ventrue snapped, crawling R8 rumbling discontentedly beneath her. "Give me a chance to explain, at least! At the very least – you'd be a fool not to listen. You can do that much, can't you? Please?"

Anarchs didn't like being called fools. He stopped short. Ms. Woeburne stomped the brake; momentum bucked her forward.

"I thought I told you-"

"PLEASE?" she echoed, belting it out through clenched front teeth. Nines's lips tightened. Several seconds passed where neither spoke, jarred in a casual standoff, too irritated with each other for useless comments. Serena's _please_ was shrill.

"Fuck it. Alright," the Anarch finally agreed, something not unwise to suppose he'd been planning all along. That did not mean Rodriguez let himself appear as though this was a fast decision. He sighed, disgruntled, scratching viciously at his neck before lurching forward. Five steps took him up to and around Woeburne's vehicle, where his right forearm propped itself along the window's upper lip, left resting near a handgun. Serena eyed it with derision, disliking the close proximity. At this point-blank range, a shot from that pistol – any pistol; any caliber, really – would paint the speedometer with brains. (Doubtless an encouraging thought for Mr. LaCroix's troubled envoy. She was always good for those.)

"I got other places to be – just so you know," Rodriguez made sure to throw in. The Seneschal's eyes rolled jade in her rearview. He pretended not to see. "But I'm in a pretty good mood, so they can wait. I'll toss you another chance. What's your problem, Cam?"

"I told you: it's business," she informed him. This was truth. Actually, Ms. Woeburne realized with a flinch against her headrest, everything she'd said to Nines Rodriguez tonight had been truth. This must've been a first. "Official business, straight from the Prince. I can't exactly cram it all into sixty seconds roadside, but I think you'll want to hear it. I'd prefer if the entire street didn't, though."

The Bujah got rather quiet. The standing man, a silhouette beneath lamplight, looked like he might step forward or might run away.

"Shall I put my hands against the vehicle?" Serena asked him flippantly. The aside dealt a predictable prod to Anarch vanity that registered unmistakably on his face. Nines Rodriguez wasn't afraid of _any_ trussed-up Ventrue bitch – wasn't that right? "Believe it if you can: there aren't any surprises in store tonight. It's harmless. Harmless as I'll ever be. Let's go for a ride," she implored, "and I'll tell you all you'll want to know."

This time, their pause was long.

"If you try anything fast," the Baron cautioned her, utterly stern despite his ridiculous threat. He leant close enough to deliberately show teeth. She briefly considered stomping the gas and squealing out from beneath his arm. "_Anything_ – if you even look at me wrong, Woeburne – I will shoot you right in the head."

The accidental entendre was not lost upon Ms. Woeburne, who – rather than cowering – quite nearly laughed in his face. "I promise to have you home by nine-thirty," Sebastian LaCroix's Seneschal swore, her most earnest tone. She was disappointed when he did not seem to get the joke. Nines frowned and stared like stone.

"Truthfully," the Ventrue amended, not wanting to spoil her chance with her masochist humor. She gestured reassuringly to the passenger side. "I'm alone here. You can check if you'd like; I have nothing to hide. It's all right."

Serena could not say if it was to judge her sincerity or simply to posture, but there was one last solid silence on the side of that road, and perhaps she should've taken the leeway to have second-thoughts herself. Instead, though – because she was a Prince-Childe with ambition on her mind – the Foreman tilted her head expectantly, nodded _go on_, and tried what she thought was an honest, diplomatic smile.

"Cute doesn't work on you, Woeburne," Baron LA grumbled, thumped her roof, and grabbed for the handle before Serena's toes punched the accelerator flat.

"What are you doing," she snarled back, groping for leverage, caught between withdrawal or slamming the now cracked cockpit shut. It felt awfully vulnerable to have one's whole side hanging out to the dirtier part of town. She moved to yank her door shut.

His answer didn't take a second. "Driving," Nines said, as though it was a nothing suggestion, and the latch couldn't close with the grip that he had.

"Hell if you are. This is my car," Serena squawked. He wrenched it open anyway and proceeded to duck in without any further arguing. A highly chagrined Ms. Woeburne was forced to clamber into the passenger seat, catching her purse strap on the stick, leaving shoe prints right on a fold of leather upholstery.

"Sorry, London, but I've seen how you handle a wheel and you almost killed me the last time. Promise all you want; doesn't make it mean anything," he told her, shut that warred-over door, and kicked in the clutch. The Ventrue radiated hostility as she bristled there. Her odium was beaten to a dragonish snort. He did not look at Serena, though, but quickly adjusted the seat and mirror – sloppy calculations, pursed mouth, anxiety still dwelling beneath a somber conversation. "You know if you're being honest, but that says nothing about your people, even if everything else is fact. This works better for my reservations and it gets me in here for you."

Ms. Woeburne wanted to elbow the temple she was left glaring at, but settled unsatisfactorily for volcanic, malicious regard. Control seizures, even haphazard ones, were obvious defensive maneuvers by a cautious Brujah; he was afraid of police blocks or snipers crouching in wait. Mapping their route himself would spoil any homicidal plans to park in deserted lots where gunmen hid. This practical explanation was no reason why Serena should like it any better, however. Perhaps they were happier sailing ammunition at each other, after all. She resented being ousted and the sudden physicality of having moved.

'_At least he is listening,'_ the Seneschal reminded herself on a soothing intake of breath. If his paranoias were upsetting, half their logic was true: he _was_ indeed here. At least there was that. As least she would not have to wander back to Sebastian with another failed effort at navigating Jyhad.

"This is a nice car, London," Nines observed – just as it moved again, tires revolving, the sidewalk beginning to reliably blur.

Woeburne flashed him a paper-thin, unimpressed smile. "Thank you," she said, a well-bred rendition of "Fuck you." Seneschal Los Angeles watched wheels turn towards road markings, arm propped on the built-in rest, knuckles pressed against her eyebrow. She felt oddly defeated to be sitting here, and markedly sore about it.

"Your Daddy buy you this car?"

"I can't imagine why my property is any of your business," she answered coolly, blasé expression failing in cloaking her hostility. She shouldn't have dared dream they might exchange intel without bludgeoning through juvenile nonsense like this beforehand. Rodriguez didn't like to talk to her in any capacity until LaCroix's ambassador was rushed, fuming and affronted. He was clearly hoping tangential conflicts would make her trip – and honestly, they might have under kinder circumstances – but the act was spoiled by recognition. Perhaps she'd just begin these conversations with him in a foul mood from here on out. It tasted like losing somehow, though – so, enduring attacks disguised as immaturity, Woeburne sucked at her top teeth and roped in calm.

"I'm just a little amazed," Nines said thoughtfully to himself, a reflection Serena didn't dignify with smart remarks. "You having crashed everything you've put your hands on."

Ms. Woeburne began thumping one heel into the plasticy rug. There was an economic gray Beretta compact wedged beneath her chair. Maybe a flash of that would shut him up. Then again, that innocent intimidation tactic might very well result in a hunk of lead steaming behind her temporal lobe, which would make tonight even more trying than it already was. The officer began fiddling with her seatbelt, stripping nylon from neckline. "As delightful as this is," she huffed out, "do you want to hear what I have to say, or not?"

"Do you figure I'd be here if I didn't?"

She pulled a folder from the dashboard to flop it across her knees: five fat leaflets stuffed with blueprints, dossiers, intercepted messages and maps that triangulated likely Black Hand targets. "This is information about several local packs I think you can use. It's up-to-date until four days ago. I was reluctant to release data, but after a discussion with the Prince, he has decided-" That wasn't appropriate anymore, especially not when dealing with Anarchs. "_He and I_ have decided that it's best you have access to the latest on our mutual foe. Pay particular attention to the high mobility in Santa Monica, among other things; it's a primary concern, and one that should be kept mum until dealt with. I'll go over this with you in greater detail if necessary." LaCroix's ambassador gave a sober '_ahem_' before moving on. "You will notice that this is only an analysis, not an instruction booklet. We have avoided planning for your people. I told my superiors that would only rub you the wrong way. If it turns out that you would like a consult, you may seek one in more formal capacity. We are willing to set aside a meeting to strategize about this. Find a reasonable place for us to talk and I'd be glad to go over any of the contents with you tonight. But for now, as I said: it's more important that your records are complete," Serena announced, sarcasm nipping. (As if _The Last Round_ had ever housed a single record that didn't involve vinyl.) "Feel free to incorporate what I've written here. This is a copy; you may keep it as long as you wish. Courtesy of LaCroix Enterprises."

Woeburne was a bit concerned when the combined mention of her Sire and Camarilla advice failed to rile him. The unparticular grin that hacksawed Nines's face in the interim did not seem congruent with vaunted goodwill gestures from Ventrue government. "Mr. Rodriguez, are you listening to me?" she asked, strained.

"Sure. I'm _listening_, Woeburne."

Seneschal Los Angeles seared him with a vile look. She didn't picture rants about taking this semi-alliance seriously would forward her goals. "Then you'll have to fill me in on what I said that was so amusing. I don't see the-"

"Me driving a brand new car bought with a big fat LaCroix Foundation check, managing _your_ enemies, listening to you condescend about meetings and bookkeeping. Doing all of it, even though I just tried to resolve this mess with you myself. Stopping to hear you talk, when I have no particular reason not to believe your bosses hope I'll wind up dead as de Luca." He turned a corner too strong, overpowering the wheel – a minute squeak, a glimpse of severity. Serena did not retreat but could feel the riggings between both shoulder blades winch tighter. Her look sobered from petulant irritation to a businesslike frown. She looked ahead down this claustrophobic, darkening ribbon of street. "But better than all of that is this little detail: knowing every part of it, you just keep on trying to piss me off. That's pretty amusing. More than."

There was silence in which the politician, stern and forward-facing, wouldn't dare twist her chin. She waited for a dangerous ultimatum that did not come. Or waited until the Seneschal couldn't stand it anymore, that is – because if there was going to be another stupid exchange of lethalities tonight, may as well get this train rolling – and finally stole a sideways glance.

Nines was still smiling – a small, irksome, backhand-worthy smile. There were worlds of dislike and false openness wrapped up in that challenging statement and slow blink. Serena considered withdrawing their generous aid, but Sabbat control wasn't her bargaining chip to cast or recall. And, a grim prospect: the aid was unfortunately mutual, both for Masquerade maintenance and for her own status as a liable target. Baron LA was not amiss to this – nor to the way she had soldiered up a moment ago, expecting trouble, receiving none.

"Kind of funny... ain't it, Woeburne?"

Ms. Woeburne was above throwing punches at Anarchs by this point. Instead, the Foreman breathed a sigh out through her nose and glanced placidly back. Her teeth fit around his name evenly, the sound neutral, antagonism void. "Rodriguez," she said.

"Yes, London."

"Go to hell," Serena told him, folded both arms, and tossed her skull into the headrest.

Never mind the unspoken "sugar" to his rude description of her relationship with Mr. LaCroix. Practice had made the woman (mostly) immune to these nasty things Brujah so often spat out, but that didn't mean Serena, stoic and mildly discontent, had to accommodate their childishness. She remained stoic and mildly discontent. The Ventrue wasn't about to start screaming, chucking things about and stamping feet so early in the evening, after all; control meant owning her calm.

Still. The "Daddy" comment bothered her. It bothered her more than his escalating almost-warning, in fact, something she realized made very little sense. Oh, the gossip didn't go completely unheard; surely there were those who charted their Senechal's recent promotion up to nepotism-in-action, inbred favoritism, but such was the fate of any Prince's Childe. Her cringe wasn't even struck by the sexual undertones, which admittedly did horrify straitlaced Ms. Woeburne. What truly crawled beneath Serena's skin was the fact that Sebastian had so _removed_ himself from her personal life that he – in no way, shape or form – resembled a father-figure. Not even an abusive one. There was no familial bond behind his occasional compliment; she had essentially been Sired from several blood bags, handed the Kindred etiquette primer, and crammed into a company cubicle. Well, not literally. But pretty damned close to it.

Ms. Woeburne tried many times to recall what her Sire's blood had been like – she couldn't quite – and this disturbed the Childe nearly as much. Imagined proof of heritage would have to do. She imagined something like crushing a peppermint leaf under your tongue, a hard-to-swallow gulp of bitter wine. Attempting to remember at greater length was futile, for the product of this Embrace was abrupt; a snap-crack minuteman, not some honeyed daydreamer; and there was no _way_ Ventrue vitae had aftertaste.

"Must you keep fiddling with things?" Serena snapped, eyeing Rodriguez's right bracer with disdain. He was clicking through her radio presets.

"Devil's in the details, Woeburne. You're our correspondent now. I'm curious. Nothing wrong with that," Nines declared. The Seneschal frowned. News readings cut through a symphony, chopped sleepy saxophone to bits. Every dial turn and unwanted mile tiptoed perilously closer to her temper with a match. "Arrangement like ours doesn't come along every day; ceasefires make people nervous, make them edgy; hard to keep things from getting dangerous real quick. So if I stand a chance to get bit, I like to figure out what kind of snake I'm dealing with early as I can. Your people should understand that."

The Ventrue snorted, gulped an urge to squawk "My _people_?" because it was exactly what he wanted, and spun the disrespect back around. "Well, if you find any epiphanies sitting in my car," she chuffed, just enough to sear. "Do tell me what kind of _snake_ I am."

The insult earned her an abbreviated lecture. An ember flared in the millisecond scrape of his closest eye. "I'll tell you. You're a snake who's losing the high ground here, blueblood. Before you start cracking wise, try to teach me a lesson on what's important, think about this. I was born in 1907. Oh-_seven_. I was dead before you were born. I was playing this game when you were having trouble staying in the lines, Woeburne. Think about that. And for some reason, you've got the notion that – in all that time – I'm coming to the table with less than you. Who do you imagine looks like the bigger asshole in this equation?"

"Defensive. And overreactive. I wasn't implying anything," Serena lied, her spite obvious. Better cut with an apology than have to sit through diatribes about self-sufficiency and black ties. "I'm not one to give unwanted advice. So I will let the matter rest. But it might help this arrangement of ours, perhaps – as it might help the Brujah – if some of them would remember that I have a job to do. I do not speak for the entire Camarilla. And this city isn't exactly Carthage."

He glanced at her thinly without turning his head. The threat was as irrelevant and insubstantial as it was tired. "That said, you do realize I can still beat the shit out of you."

"_Sss_," she hissed.

Rodriguez looked murderous for an instant – then gave her an undersized and unmeaningful smile.

It was a suitable impasse for now. Serena pressed two fingers into her brow, let antagonism drain and resumed being a grown person. Her headache was beginning to pinch in earnest. Ms. Woeburne's cheekbones were doing a poor job looking hierarchical and angular in this light, crowded by the pessimism of tired eyes and prideful chin. "May we please focus on more contemporary issues? Issues less dated than this ancient blood feud. I did plan on discussing something pertinent with you when I made this invitation."

"We could talk about the time you tried flattening me with an eighteen-wheeler," he suggested. Then, at her exasperate stare: "I'm working on it. We'll go somewhere secure. And then you can impress me."

"Fine." So said the pacified Seneschal.

At least until the CDs started cycling.

"Will you _stop_?" Serena snapped, stiffening as he reached forward to press 'next.' The Audi sped through an intersection and turned down a dreary-looking street. The Anarch considered.

"Stop what?"

"Sometimes people have things arranged a certain way," she explained – tried to explain, more scathing than sincere – the nuisance of it all making this needless row sourer than it should've been. Everything devolved into a territory fight. Perhaps this was the nature of Ventrue and Brujah, or perhaps it was just theirs. Whatever the case, it was an exhausting way to doom free exchange; insignificant fights, competitions in miniature, eroded better possibilities. The officer felt inanely protective of this overpriced and ill-fitting car. "And they don't like them bothered with."

Rodriguez lifted an eyebrow at her sermon on manners. Ruffled scales had been expected; this justification had not. "Maybe it's espionage," he proposed – in the same casual, undermining tone of deaths delayed. Espionage and edicts: the language of devil Patricians, of bad laws bent and pawns pushed through expedient contracts. It was a jab at something she could understand. Woeburne did not like the joke. Fake friendliness could not cloak hostilities and ulterior motives; treacherous metaphor was inherent in every Kindred word and act.

"Then it's the cheapest espionage I've ever seen. Enough."

"I'm just getting to know you a little, London."

The fatalistic look Woeburne gave him was bitter enough to deserve her Sire. "Don't bother," she said.

Nines hit the off-button.

They were in silence again.

**II.**

There were no more stabs at open conversation that night. Instead, they drove on quietly, contention muted; these bite-sized control battles would have to wait until a less-definitive evening. He didn't have the idle time and Serena didn't have the endurance.

Had the Seneschal not been so damned tired, she probably would've demanded to know where it was they were headed. Ms. Woeburne had let that escape her, however. She simply assumed – considering the in-transit nature of their recent liaison – there wasn't any particular destination. True, the political constraints had lessened somewhat between them. Secrecy was no longer necessary. But forgiven fistfights in mind, Serena saw no reason to suspect things would change overmuch. Nines would likely meander around until interrogating her to his liking, drive himself somewhere convenient in the meanwhile, and leave once he'd run out of useful questions. She doubted he would pay for the wasted gas.

Suffice it to say, the Seneschal was disturbed when the wheels stopped – and they were sitting not on some random curb, but in a desolate, poorly-lit parking lot.

"This doesn't make me ill-at-ease in the least," she snipped. Ms. Woeburne didn't believe Rodriguez had any current grounds to kill her – he was free to take every bit of information she'd brought – but it was hard to feel _good_ about empty asphalt and broken streetlights. Glass teeth in a shattered bulb yawned ominously. Beer bottles had littered a far corner, where parking paint ran, and blood could drip through the sewer drains warm. She scanned quickly for outlines in vehicles. There were none. "Didn't you insist on hijacking my car to avoid precisely this sort of ending?"

"London, if I was going hurt you tonight, you'dve been dead at Carthage." Nines was unfazed by their settings, clicking off headlights and engine. He yanked the keys from the ignition and dropped them in Serena's lap. She jumped at their cold metal _chink_ through the thin black of her trousers. Buildings stacked in depressed, bleached brick scowled down in tight angles upon them. It felt unsafe. "We're going to do exactly what you said. Get your speech ready. Bring what you've got."

Ms. Woeburne removed her seatbelt, left hand sliding towards the hidden Beretta. '_Better safe than sorry_.' She had been abiding to that mother hen saying since childhood – refusing drinks, double-checking appointments, unplugging space heaters and never turning her back on Anarch Barons. Especially not the friendly ones. There were at least ten rounds waiting in that gun. "Where are we, exactly? And – dare I ask – _why_ we are here?"

"Don't have a conniption, Ventrue. You've been great," Rodriguez praised, but it sounded contemptuous. Cool air washed in quickly when he opened the door. "So I'm giving you a chance to show off.

"What do you-?"

The realization of being _here_ hit her.

"Oh, NO," Woeburne boomed, nails sinking three full inches into her leather seat. They dug until the polish cracked in colorless flakes. The Foreman's back racked itself up like a cat spine, body hair standing on end, shoulders shoving against the car confines in an attempt to wedge herself firmly in place. She saw peeling storm paint. She saw a dingy rear door, the boarded windows. She smelled the suspicious lack of drunken patrons. She did not need to dash around front and read the sign. "No. No, you are not. I am not. Out of the question. Absolutely out of the question. In fact, I'm going to spell it for you plainly, so there's no confusion: I will NEVER set foot in there. Not tonight. Not ever. Take your records; we'll discuss them at an assembly. I'm going home." The Audi was giving off a thick-headed ajar door _ding_! It did a good job mimicking how the pulse might whack inside Serena's if she still pumped a living heart.

Rodriguez was standing just outside the driver's seat, arms crossed, presumably staring at her. The pistol beneath this foam cushion was a remote but welcome comfort. Should he make a single sudden move, Serena had already decided she'd blow a smoking crater right in the Brujah's groin.

"Woeburne," Nines sighed. The exhausted way he said her name communicated much.

"I'm _not_," she repeated. The Ventrue had snatched up her keyring and locked the passenger door. He might've had enough strength to overpower her, but would not be doing so without a gawky struggle and face full of kneecaps. Serena felt a little like a raccoon burrowed back in someone's cabinets, hissing toothy threats, spectacled coat puffed to be larger than it truly was. She imagined there was no real justification for proposing this – no concrete rationale for a Seneschal's presence in _The Last Round_. "I'm not going in there."

Unless they were planning on killing her and turning the bloodless carcass into a dartboard, after all. But it was a flagrant misuse of resources.

"Yeah, you really are," the Anarch capped. Prejudice was elbowing its way through his demonstration of bipartisan calm. His rings caught moonlight in their menacing, blunt weapon way.

"You're seriously mistaken if you even think for a _second_ I'd be idiotic enough to-"

"Then I'm not taking jack shit from you – records or otherwise." That was not what Serena had expected. She saw the Brujah's face toughen, hatred hitting a whetstone. Rodriguez's flattened his fist on the R8 door, ducking down to glower at her. He was unfriendly, and just close enough to give her a second startling view of what gleaned within his mouth. "Listen. I am willing to work with your people here, Woeburne. I have been MORE than forgiving. But I am NOT going to foul my reputation sneaking around with the Prince's new Seneschal without a public gesture of your goodwill. Are we understanding each other?"

"If you wanted a gesture, you should have come to a damned forum," Woeburne snarled back, fingertips now curled within inches of her weapon. She could actually feel a rise beneath where infant length curled and fell over the notches of her neck. "What in the hell do you think I've been doing the past few weeks but handing goodwill to your people? This is beyond 'gesture.' I've got more goodwill than I know what to do with. I'm _screaming_ goodwill. I'm singing it to the bloody hills-"

The Baron deeply and aggressively cut her off. "I'm not interested in a performance. You wanted a secure place to discuss business. I'm giving you that. But I am not afraid enough of some shovelheads, think they're hammered together a scheme, to hook myself to this corporate chain. I will not have some knock-kneed Capes downtown whispering that Nines Rodriguez is throwing in a towel on account of whoring info from that fucking tower. So here's how it's going to be. You're going to get out of the car, walk in that door-" He pointed. "-and you are going to sit down with me and make it clear that this is still _my_ show or you can take your Camarilla armistice and shove it up your scrawny white ass."

If she'd been glued to the shotgun seat before, Serena had now osmosised into it.

"That is the line I'm supposed to trust? You act as though _my_ invitation could've been a threat, and then you usher me here – no advance notice, no request – to throw an ultimatum on my lap? And _that's_ what this is about?" the operative rasped, what was meant to be a skeptical dig sounded more like a wheezing balloon. A brown tuft of hair had static-clung to her cardigan. "Your street cred?"

Nines's expression did not soften; his voice didn't lighten its danger. "That is absolutely what this is about. I realize this is not the place a Ventrue consul wants to be," he acknowledged, though if that sympathy was supposed to reassure her, the effort fell flat. Its edges were hard and obdurate. She made herself straight and unapproachable in response. "But I can't care right now. I want to make one thing known tonight. We are not working for you; YOU are working for us." Or so went the proclamation, granting Woeburne no leave to protest. "I don't give a shit if you believe that or not. I don't care if your boss laughs when you tell him so. But if there are any doubts about this equation among my soldiers, our 'business relationship' is over. And I won't owe you the courtesy of my tolerance."

The notion of parking outside an Anarch den and losing its patriarch's welcome was moderately terrifying. "I'm not here to feed your ego," Serena made herself seethe, a comeback mild enough to sidestep the final tripwire. Mock them, yes; deride him, certainly. But she was very careful tightrope-walking on a razor edge of real Brujah temper. This game had been a prolonged match of Russian roulette, as most truces of convenience were, but there was no need to place two bullets in the cylinder. "You're forgetting the nature of this pact. It doesn't matter who comes to my conferences. It doesn't even matter where we hold our meetings, to be that frank. What matters is that I AM your Seneschal. I didn't have to come here at all – you do realize this? That I'm speaking with you – exchanging data with you – is the biggest gesture I can give. Do you understand?"

"I understand. Do you?" he asked her, slammed the door, and stalked towards his sad excuse for Elysium.

Ms. Woeburne sat there for another minute, confused.

"Brilliant," she muttered, but gave up arguing, stowed her pistol in her purse, seized the folder and clambered out after him.

_The Last Round_ was claustrophobic, disorganized and filthy; it was exactly what Serena would've pictured at the words "Brujah decorating." Everything had been slapped over in a cheap hunter matte, flaking mossy green; handy militants converted liquor storage space to ammunition banks; badly-upholstered seats bled stuffing, wooden bases only somewhat warped. More poster than wallpaper covered the place, fliers peeling away from thumb tacks and masking tape. Dark, cramped stairs led to a second floor; there was a weighted trapdoor that suggested they had a cellar. She could imagine what (or who) a gang of Anarchs might keep locked up in the basement and had no compulsions to explore. Smoke choked the establishment, which assumedly hadn't smelled liquid cleaner in a decade. Serena counted at least seven visible firearms, four in clear violation of law, and three distinctly non-cookware knives from the doorway. They were probably brewing economy bombs in the cellar. Honestly, a contractor would've been more sensible to tear the entire building down and rebuild from scratch than try to salvage anything.

What did they _do_ all day? Play poker and stack soapboxes? No wonder the Experiment was failing.

In times like these, Ventrue had difficulty figuring out why any child would fight tooth-and-nail to keep such a rat's nest of government. They liked to claim their (e)state had history. But Ms. Woeburne was fairly sure the Anarch nation's character was self-imposed. Unruly clans liked feeling dirty and agitated. Even were there sufficient resources to obtain a better stronghold – she was certain there were; Brujah had drug money, sex money, blood money… but _money_ – malingering here was more conducive to loyalty. Their cannon-fodder was remarkably heartfelt, tragically poetic; young soldiers preferred dugouts to palaces, and trusted leaders who endured them. Smart headmen recognized this – appreciated that settings like these, tailored or chosen, looked like outside oppression. It sparked grassroots camaraderie and discouraged mutineers. It helped one's Jyhad stake feel like a proper revolution rather than another political coup. Outward appearances be damned: the downtown Anarchs couldn't _move_, for Pete's sake; they would've lost their rioting peasant vibe.

"I hope you know I'm not _speaking_ with anyone," she whispered just behind him, a bitter, scathing sound standing in that entryway. Unawares talk buzzed indecipherably on the other side of the jacket she glared at. Were it not for the likelihood of more violence between them, Serena would've wished with barbs in her mind that their size difference was just a bit greater; if only, those other voices might not have seen her slink in, at all. "And I'm not shaking anyone's hand. These are my off-hours."

Nines's peripheral look said _"shut up, Woeburne"_ well enough.

She sighed dramatically, dismally.

She followed him inside.

Seneschal Los Angeles's duties included listening to these people grumble back-and-forth across unfilled seminar halls; they did _not_ demand she actually learn their names. As such, this bar was a line of neonate faces gawping blankly at the unannounced company. Serena's expression was downcast, posture tense, pace swift and unchallenging as possible. There was only one vaguely familiar individual downstairs: the blond, straggly child who'd crouched in an office window and cocked a SWAT rifle at her chest so many months ago. Ms. Woeburne had forgotten his Party epithet, something stupid and diminutive, but recognized that salty mop of beach hair with a pang of dislike. It sat sometimes sat far back in her townhalls saying nothing. In lieu of anything to call him, she'd dubbed that gold head "the Toreador."

The Toreador usually had a pickup line ready, if Serena remembered correctly. There was so much surprise currently registering around her, though, that said Toreador had apparently phased this requirement out. His mouth dropped, eyebrows hefting themselves up a broad forehead. The young Anarch slid off his corner of bartop, leaving a Remington behind, thrust both hands in corduroy pockets and simply remarked: "Huh!"

That about summed it up, actually.

Seneschal LA reluctantly traveled upstairs, stuck in the shadow of her host, hoping all the regulars might be so dumbstruck. At least then she wouldn't end up caught at a complaint desk. It was generally understood that Mr. LaCroix financed her with "gifts," not paychecks… but if this evening crumbled into a Rant, she would damn well demand overtime compensation.

_The Last Round_'s second story contained a more diverse spread. It held four rickety tables, sober overhead lights and a bulletin board. At one of these tables sat the awful redheaded girl – fine "Den Mother" they had, whose blood smelled decades weaker than her own and who could not restrain her volume in _any_ capacity, let alone this one. She was dishing orders to some shabby Gangrel footman Ms. Woeburne could not identify. Two ghouls stood attentively at the room's far side, startling when they spied intruders, darting closer to their short-statured commander.

Said commander gave a nasally, foul-tempered bawk and bolted to her feet. "Surprise" didn't cover this reaction, however – more like tongue-tied, stricken outrage. The Ventrue could relate. She watched them all gape, caught between caterwauls and running away. The scarlet woman's knuckles were likely to start denting plywood at any second now. She wore a thrift store beret and an army-casual wardrobe that looked torn from the pages of a surplus magazine. Serena was relieved not to see Smiling Jack lurking about.

The eyes in the attic darted between exit and Seneschal several laps, blanched, probably wondering if somebody was about to get in trouble. Ms. Woeburne felt like a headmistress who'd just waltzed into the party room. She stood there trying to frown her authoritative best beside a Baron with dirt on his jeans.

_"God,"_ she thought – an unkind, but not unwistful reflection – at the seriousness of Nines's face and how far from a nice lounge in Hendon this sad insanity was.

Ms. Woeburne expected Rodriguez to make a belittling announcement about present company, but he didn't. The man said nothing but "Downstairs – and don't get stupid" before placing himself at a vacant table. They complied. The crimson-and-camouflage girl made a stuttering sound like "Buh-buh-SH-!" but she saw Nines scowl and thudded away. Her cohorts were quickly at heel and filtered out of their bar's upper floor. The Toreador – who'd been blinking up after them, neck craning like an ostrich – retracted and slunk off.

Still. As the Ventrue hung up her coat, Serena could have sworn she heard a male whistle downstairs manage the first few swanking notes of "Cruella de Ville."

"What a warm welcome that was," came Woeburne's first frosty observation of the night. Rodriguez could tell from past experience and her unfortunate mood there would be many more. "How right you were in ordering me here. I can see your people are thrilled about the officer in their den. What more do you want from me?" she insisted straight away, brows furrowing over the lime spurs her eyes had become. They had been well enough left alone, but were hardly private. You could feel ears twitching one floor below. No matter; publicity needs brought them here, and the offensive portion of their evening had already passed. She fixed Nines with the same glare that had targeted his back since entering this bear pit. "May we go over the contents of my report now? I've told you its history and explained the delay, but I've also been given instructions to provide extra background on whatever you wish."

He hunkered forward on a corner table; through the gloomy windows behind him, Ms. Woeburne could see purple sky above her stark white automobile. It was a balmy night, cloudless and hot. There were multitudes of finer ways to spend it than brooding in _The Last Round_ so that its chief might maintain his machismo. He was still motionless; she was standing upright, chin thrust an inch above its natural resting place, flimsy boots stiff against creaking floor panels. Protective fingers clasped the embossed folder over her naval, a disciplinarian stance. Serena was not offered a chair, and would not have accepted one.

"I think they are self-explanatory. Everything is there very clear. But if you want my consultation…"

"I don't see what's so confusing about this. All I needed was for you to show your face," Rodriguez told her, with not much more to say to this Prince's Childe. The seat creaked when he settled into it. Baron Central glowered upon his own folded hands, linked together on the knotholed wood. When he looked up again, directly at her, a strange déjà vu occurred; something about the suddenness and storm curiosity of that face mirrored how he had stood across from Serena in a defunct torture room. There was a familiar ring of emptiness around bleak irises: a hollow stamp, an undead marker, one Ms. Woeburne saw nightly in her own reflection. She had to wonder if this is how she, too, appeared – to humans, ghouls, Kindred younger than herself, to those Rabble children sitting unheard in neat corporate rows of Nocturne Theatre every Thursday Sebastian said _now_. It was a small white glint of savageness, hints at afterlife, a little bit of the ghost. It reminded that every nagging thing you felt was a not-quite-genuine echo of something warped. Metallic blue regarded her coldly. She narrowed back. "Trading intel with the Camarilla is a dangerous game. You're a mouthpiece. I get that. And honestly, it would be nice to have some top-down help burning the Sabbat back into their holes for once. But you had your chance to convince me 'neutral ground' was an option – and we both know how that turned out. So. From now on, we're going to handle this on my terms. No more office visits. No more pointless meetings in that damn theater – since it's obvious you're skirting the stage to discuss anything halfway important. I'm not fond of useless face-time and I have better things to do with my nights than play along in your little appeasement show. You want to approach me – business, personal, anything in-between – you do it here. Is that understood?"

Serena glanced at him sidelong. It must've looked ridiculous – a rigid Seneschal beneath an Anarch poster, naked bulbs bleeding the wrinkles off her button-down. She did not sit. "That should be simple enough. I plan on approaching you as rarely as possible."

"You're already a bitch, Woeburne. Don't be a dumb one," he grumbled, and afforded her a chastising look. "I assume nothing at this juncture. Just wanted to make sure you and I are on the same page. There are complexities to dealing with you people of which I am not a big fan."

The Ventrue's eyes flashed unfavorably in his direction. Hers were indeed a little sharper – a little less vague – owning their color precisely. She stepped forward and dropped the report bundle onto his table from all too high a height. "I didn't know reading was too complex for you."

You could practically hear the jaws hanging downstairs.

Nines dismissed her comment, took Woeburne's folder, laid everything out upon the tabletop and studied for what its author felt to be an inadequate amount of time. When he was finished, the Brujah collapsed it all into a single, lopsided stack and mulled. Serena had to resist obsessive compulsion to steal the files away and divvy them into proper groupings once more. _Fah_! What a waste of her excellent organizational skills. That would be the last time paperclips went anywhere near documents bound for Anarchs.

LaCroix's emissary watched him scan her handiwork with a sort of reserved sobriety. She felt intensely nervous about standing in _The Last Round_. There'd be a long talk with Sebastian before any permanent relocation was made… but the Baron had announced his terms with no leeway for faulty semantics. Besides, it was difficult not to be jumpy when one found themselves surrounded by revolutionaries called Zealots – combatants who'd relish little more than your agency's Final Death. This lair barely passed for an infantry bunker, let alone a summit chamber; it was not a location for people like her. War rooms were better cast in marble and swords. And the companionship left much to be desired. For a stomach-twisting moment, Serena feared she might run into Lily – the Ventrue really didn't know _what_ she would do in that event – but did not see her and did not ask. Rodriguez was smart enough to keep that imprudent girl well enough away from her aggrieved ex-employer. Wasn't he? Surely he wasn't spoiling for a fight so much as to arrange that?

Best to not think about it. Memories of betrayal didn't settle well on this corporal's stringy nerves.

Nines examined the various schematics and patrol routes for hardly more than fifteen minutes before passing judgment. Ms. Woeburne guessed her report aced his authenticity test, as he had no further disparagements. She waited for sentencing with hands folded tolerantly, the set of her mouth anything but. Character flaws? Perhaps. But Serena dared anyone – Ventrue, Brujah or otherwise – to nitpick her record-keeping.

"Acceptable?" the Seneschal inquired, growing impatient. Rodriguez rubbed at his thin moustache.

"Fine. I will take your information."

Woeburne didn't swallow the superior, self-satisfied smirk that came. Her eyebrows bounced. "I thought so. As I said, you may have that. We trust your tactics won't waste our scouting." She noticed how Nines did not look at her, distracted instead by a set of shipping confirmations between the Chicago and Hallowbrook packs. _Humility_. How unlucky it was that there were more important matters on tonight's planner than gloating at the downsized ego of an Anarch Baron. "Well. You've got strategizing to attend to and I'm expected in an assembly later. May I go?"

"I insist," the Brujah snorted, sliding her portfolio aside. He lurched out of his chair with moonglare slingshotting off the pendant around his neck. There were ammunition boxes peeking through the upstairs cabinets. Her demeanor toward them all was bladelike. "Next time you need to set up a talk, Woeburne, I expect you to ring this place – not my private number. I don't sneak around making backroom deals. That's not my style. Unlike some people, I prefer my politics to be public domain."

_Naturally_. Serena had to chomp her tongue so as not to call him out with belly-laughs and scandalous correspondence. The hypocrisy of last-man alphas like this one boiled her blood as much as their omegas' naiveté did. Still, the Ventrue fired back only with a knowing, cynical look. Her sarcasm was uncomfortably loud, gratingly obvious, blatantly tossed towards those eager ears downstairs. "Right! Of course you do. You're the boss, _boss_. I'll write myself a note," she chirped, lids wrinkling, false pleasantries.

Rather than spinning around and fattening the lip of Los Angeles's new Seneschal, Nines calmly cleared his throat. She did not dig a last pin prick, though there were plenty of tender spots showing. Odd times. Their restraint was a sign of changing game plans and zeitgeist shifts.

He hustled Serena downstairs without incident, through an exit door, then watched the vampire scurry out to her car with a jumper slung over one shoulder and relief rolling off every punctual step.

He had nearly turned back inside when a movement caught Rodriguez's attention across the unlit street.

He squinted.

There was little movement on the boulevard outside; stray leaves mingled with trash and piled high gutters, a loose cat darted beneath garbage bins, a domestic fight erupted in the apartment complex across this rundown alleyway. Southwestern wind felt low. The quiet kicks of seasonal breeze carried a funny scent – a scent he couldn't quite identify. There were no rustling drifters.

London was hollering something futile about _"forum next week"_ that went ignored. It didn't feel right. Rodriguez couldn't tell you why, because he couldn't put a bead on what "it" was. Beyond that shrill, yappish tone of her voice, Nines swore there was something fidgeting out there – loitering in a patch of dark, just past the shot-out streetlamp. He stared at it. He squinted harder.

Yellow eyes were staring back.

It clicked.

"WOEBURNE GET AWAY FROM THE-!"

The Seneschal's R8 went up in a hot burst of orange, tires exploding, siding crinkling like cigarette paper.

The sound shook their headquarters on its rafters. It blinded Rodriguez for six solid seconds, sending up a chemical blaze, knocking power from the only two functioning outdoor lights. Car windows shattered, spraying across the asphalt. Toxic smoke poured from space they left behind, upholstery dripping off metal frames, hubcaps charred brown. It was as though her Audi's insides had just _popped _– POW! – putting dents in aluminum like a bag of kettle corn. The force of it propelled Woeburne midair. Her body was thrown backwards, skull whipping forward, jacket catching fire. It hurtled head-over-heels when she hit concrete. Serena was sent rolling maybe five yards away before a second blast ruptured her fuel tanks and completely destroyed the automobile. When she finally stopped, there was a real moment of singed chaos in which the Ventrue had completely lost sense of where she was or what had just transpired. She had barely put her fingers on the door handle when everything went up in flames.

The Sabbat was running down the alley.

Kent-Alan was the first soldier outside, sprinting through their banging entryway with bewildered eyes and hands groping his firearm. Fear gripped him. But for all that clan preening, the Toreador wasn't untrained; he looked frantically at Nines, followed his line of sight, and spotted the deserter leaping over a chain-link fence.

"Kent, get him. GO," Rodriguez shouted, jerking his head towards the fleeing arsonist. Playboy nodded, dashed for a jeep parked nearby, and screeched out of their parking lot with rifle thudding against his back. Damsel's soles stamped sidewalk a moment later. She cocked a shotgun, flanked by Bernardino and a fretful two-ghoul posse. They all blinked at the gutted R8, bonfire washing color across their faces. It was now burning a steady shade of carbon blue.

Nines looked to Woeburne, sitting slack on the blacktop with a soot-plastered face and shaking hands.

There was nothing very dignified about the Ventrue now. That air of regality she carted around had been blasted out of contention by confused, delayed shock. Grime covered bare arms. Tiny chips of glass had stuck themselves in her clothing, a few burrowing deep enough to cut skin. Blood was streaming from her nostrils. Crumpled black splotches replaced tidy white where embers hit her lapels. Melted makeup ran along the snooty planes of her nose bridge in blackish, lukewarm clumps. Brunette hung in untidy hanks across an unclean brow. Her mouth was open, slightly – jaw wobbling – eyes glossed over in stupid, wordless terror. Two steps from incineration, she was breathing. She was gulping oxygen down.

Before tonight, Nines had never seen a vampire experience a panic attack. He'd assumed it was a physical impossibility for bodies that no longer required air – another unreliable, vestigial human reaction Kindred no longer needed to worry about. But there were no other words for what was happening to Serena Woeburne. She sat up on the gasolined tarmac, stared wildly, smacked both palms to her cheekbones and commenced with a textbook _panic attack_.

"GOD," London screamed – foghorned it, really – stumbling up with jelly legs that couldn't find their ankles before Rodriguez wrapped a fist in the front of her shirt and dragged Seneschal Los Angeles inside.

There was no remote protest. Knee blood soaked through her pant legs. Gravel blackened one entire side of her face, an impact bruise rising from temple to pointed chin. Fright dried out both corners of her lips. There was a gun in his free hand (though he wasn't completely sure how it got there) and an unfeeling bunch of fabric in the other, top buttons popping off and rolling somewhere, too stressed by what just happened to care about her tripping. Emergencies made Nines's focus deadly. They'd been anticipating Sabbat strikes for weeks now, watchmen rotating through Compton, scribbling license plates from a shitty apartment-turned-outpost. You couldn't really call it a surprise, but it _was_ an emergency. A big red dartboard had been stamped on London's head – unleaded stench finally making all this talk of preparation real – and it wasn't his crosshair anymore. He had to handle this situation. He had to get her indoors and the mess cleaned up. He had to make sure they weren't implicated in tonight's almost-disaster – a lucky grenade that could've brought this State crashing in dishonor to the ground.

He could tell Woeburne was completely bananas, though, because the Ventrue sunk all her fingernails into his coat without realizing it and didn't even think about withdrawing until Nines detached them. There were no disparaging comments about the rough handling or ruined clothing. She was still sucking air, hyperventilating, as he slammed the door shut and slapped her into a booth.

LaCroix's Childe almost didn't come off his sleeve when he swung her ahead of him to sit. The thump of old leather against cheap woodframe seemed to knock speech back to first gear somewhat. Their new setting processed. Pin-prick pupils in predatory eyes were an uncivilized quarrel of black and aloe. Staggered thoughts caught up rapidly as the Brujah backed off to give her some air. She looked around for a furious moment, panted fearfully, then began to steam.

"They tried to kill me," occurred – quite decisively – and in the scorched indignity of that moment, she had never looked more like Sebastian LaCroix. "Mother _fuck_, they tried to KILL me. I figured – I mean, I KNEW – they must have been tracking my movements, but this was…" _Gasp_. "Who in the hell-?" _Splutter_. "Shit!" London finally shrieked, clutching her abdomen as though she might be sick. Her entire body was shivering in the upholstered seat. None of the kids standing dumbly in their lot dared come in. Glass chips nailed linen to her skin; scarlet ebbed through. Woeburne did not particularly notice. She smelled like diesel.

"Close that window," LA's newest politician ordered, gesturing with one bossy, battered arm. He did. "They've probably been watching me since I left home. Why did I let you bring me here! We're right in the middle of downtown. Hell. _Hell_," she wheezed, slumping backwards until you could no longer see the Ventrue behind the tabletop. One of her heels had snapped off somewhere and the uneven foot was now dangling over a cushion edge. It was a little ridiculous, all this hysteria – but you had to cut assassination victims a break.

And the Baron had to admit: that Sabbat militiamen would dare stick their noses around his territory after those block raids – and with a mind to pull stunts like _this_ – made blood boil inside Rodriguez's veins. Their intent was unmistakable. You want to frame an Anarch? You blow a puppet Seneschal to bits.

"I almost died," the Foreman groaned weakly, like car bombs had to have been a joke. Apparently Prince LA's smart protégé hadn't considered herself in that report of likely demolition targets. Her hand, knuckles swollen and scraped, was clenching the counter rim. The rest of London still lay corpse-stiff across that booth couch. "I almost burnt to a crisp right in front of this shitty bar. Oh, _God_. Not a month in my station and that would've been it! Cooked to cinders. _Boom_. Gone. I could've just strolled right past that curb and into a weekend tabloid. The fucking Sabbat! _Me_. The _Sabbat_. Did you see that? Do you hear me?"

Nines appreciated this was probably an extremely rare state of being to witness the Prince's Childe in, but _damn_. The gun was still in his hand, he noticed. He'd wait another minute or two to put it away.

"I told you this might happen, didn't I?"

"I can't be here. I've got to _go_," Serena yammered, digits threading through disheveled brown. A small ring snagged itself and she simply tore the thing out, tendrils attached. It was too early to tell if they'd been tracking her or him to this very convenient execution zone. "I've got to get to Venture Tower right now. The notion – I mean, the thought – that they could snuff a city representative in the heart of-"

"Calm down, Cam. They won't hit you twice in one night," Rodriguez said, trying to overwrite the disarray. (It was a lie; such a thing was entirely possible. Two strikes within an hour were breakneck, maybe, but since when did the Sabbat function according to good sense?)

She only bobbed her head this advice, chewing on an inner cheek, expression vacant. Complacence was a bad sign for Woeburne's sanity. He put his pistol away, though didn't particularly like doing it. The flash image of that gaunt neck snapping forward kept stuttering behind his eyelids – half-a-second, combusting into red-yellow-white, body hitting and tumbling against the street hard enough to be dead in earnest. It happened too fast to see, but there was a chaotic instant in that aftermath blaze he was _sure_ she'd been cooked. Dead Seneschal on this doorstep. Games over. London said it right, because that was all there'd been. _Boom_. His chest was tight. He noticed that, too. "I've still got my car. Want me to go with you?"

This unusually friendly proposition at least incited doubt. She glowered at him, head poking over the countertop, and scoffed. "_You_? I think not."

"Suit yourself," Nines granted. Tell true, there was no force on this earth that could've marched him into LaCroix's lobby after what just detonated outside his… but the man preferred Acerbic And Contemptuous London to Panicking, Clingy London. This new creature disturbed him. It was rickety and wretched – and the apolitical, fledgling way she'd grappled onto his jacket danced right over Rodriguez's grave. Awful. Squirrely Cam probably would've climbed right up the Anarch's back in cat-up-a-tree fashion if he'd let her do it. Felt like there might have been claw gouges in the lower half of his arm. If that possibility hadn't pointed out some ugly truths of Party fortitude, he didn't know what did.

_Boom_ – and it probably would've made LaCroix's night.

That was a little better. Woeburne had sat up, removed a cellular phone from her pocket and was dialing a cab. "It's obvious enough what they were trying to do. Use me as a… that pack has left some stupid prints about these days, but _this_? I'll go straight in and file a full accounting right away. You'll be exonerated, of course. Think they can play this administration for a fool? Hah. HAH. I won't allow it. I'll tell the driver to pick me up two blocks down," she was saying, unbroken shoe tapping frantically against the floorboards. "It shouldn't be a problem. I'll just walk the extra distance and catch it there. That would be prudent, wouldn't it? I understand the inconvenience of dragging more attention to your doorstep."

Nines gave her a nod. The taxi service told Serena to expect a twenty-minute wait, she hung up, and dropped her face onto both drawn-up kneecaps. Outside, Damsel and crew were well into the business of damage control. They'd already hosed off the crumbled husk of Audi and were stripping it down, busy monitoring police radio. Still-glowing fenders were dragged off for disposal. Red weathered some guff for adopting the Den Mother title at an immature life stage, her tirades all fire and brimstone, but that girl was scary efficient when it came to Masquerade protection. She did not break apart or overload. It had been Red who called in an outside response to the Ninth Circle pandemic a couple months back – then Red again diverting CDC investigations, something done pretty much single-handedly. And it had been Red all along, bringing the death stench of a Bishop's crackhouse to his attention well before it filled with walking corpses. Covering up a car bomb was effortless in comparison.

She wasn't likely to forgive this inconvenience any time in the near future, though. Better get Woeburne out of here – more reasons than one.

"I should probably clean myself up before getting in that cab. I must look like hell," London realized. The Ventrue's brow had left smudge marks on her slacks where she'd thunked it a moment ago. One leg had been torn above the shin.

"Do what you need to do."

Unfolding, she stood – stepping gingerly, limping a bit – and moved behind the now vacant length of bar. Woeburne retrieved a handful of paper towels with which to wipe grunge off herself, running them under a sink, squeezing out excess. Her reflection was mangled in a once-cracked mirror. But looking into it made Serena notice the sharp, smarting flakes that scattered both forearms when she'd instinctively covered her face. The Seneschal grimaced. She raked her mess of hair into a tight band – rubber-band, because that's what was available. Must've stung to twist the faucet on with skinned palms, but she did it, and set to picking concrete granules from damaged flesh. They shook under raw, painful skin when she cupped water and splashed. Once, twice, thrice – dried nose blood and sediment faded, but contusions did not. Heat and asphalt cracked the vampire's lips. Something chemical had to have gotten into her mouth, too – because when London grabbed a nearby tumbler, filled it and swished, she spat black back into the basin.

"Ventrue," he tried when the Seneschal stopped. Her hand heels pressed into the rim of that unglamorous sink. Wet tail-ends of short hair dripped an oddly centered water line down the back of her shirt. Great heaviness hung just below the sheet of necessary, good-corporal calm. She exhaled. Cogs and gears ratcheted to right themselves – five-dozen mechanics ticking and turning for the order they belonged in. "All right?"

"What do you suppose?" Serena answered, and it was a bony response, but enough.

After patting off her mug, the Foreman sat back down, delicately rolled up both sleeves – no longer spic or span – and counted how many glass bits twinkled inside. She did not stop to think about it. She did not pause to empty her head.

"May I please borrow a pair of forceps?" Woeburne asked, thin and frank, as though she'd just requested a pen.

Nines put their first-aid toolbox on her table. She opened, browsed for thirty seconds, and made do with one set of stainless steel needle-nosed pliers.

He watched London sit there and pluck shards from wrist to elbow, mouth taut, depositing bloody fragments in a neat little pile on the countertop. She made no sound or further comment. There was only an occasional half-wince – a wrinkle in her bridge, a purse, or slight crinkle – before cotton dabbed the oozing cuts. It was a grim sight. Rodriguez didn't want to say anything, so he shut up and spent the next minutes frowning at his floor, arms crossed, spine pressed against the wall. Woeburne's progress was swift and compassionless. She sliced both ruined shirtsleeves away, folding what little was left; there was no more sprucing to be done. She kicked the stiletto off her other boot to even out. Eventually the breathing stopped. Recovered as possible with ruined garments and beaten body, she closed her eyes, almost like falling asleep. Fortitude ebbed the leaking contusions. They coexisted in silence for a while.

Until "Oh, _stop it_," the Seneschal bit, irritation flicking up at him through red-ringed green.

She deserted the booth and rose, dusting off her charcoal pants, to retrieve a waste basket. The pliers were rinsed and placed neatly in a dish rack. Her stack of loose fragments and saturated gauze she simply swept into the trash. Nines didn't speak right away, eyeing Serena as though the Ventrue might've lost her couple remaining marbles.

"It's a little superfluous at this point, don't you think? What with everything that's happened. And besides: it doesn't work on me, you know," Ms. Woeburne added, tugging out a blouse crease. The agent was now tucking in her collar to hide the char marks. It was a trim and assured action. She did not bother trying to find lost snaps.

"Uh. What?"

"What," she spat, eyes rolling. London rotated her arms, checking them over, semi-satisfied with their improvement. "Indeed! You know perfectly well what."

Before the Ventrue could be called crazy, she had impatiently pushed out a sigh, propped herself against a corner and folded both arms sulkily across her chest. It was a very strange stance for Woeburne – and he almost said so, almost didn't help it, nearly got alarmed. That was a few seconds prior to the shoulders, though – which angled themselves, all that perfect posture to the contrary, at a challenging tilt. It looked oddly familiar. It looked even more familiar as one shoe kicked itself against the oak, the same foot he had propped up there a moment ago. A over-exaggerated, impressively uncaring bluster replaced the woman's pettishness. A hip dropped. Serena jutted her jaw into a tough, swaggering under-bite; she cast brutish, bedroom eyes towards the ceiling and put on her best Brujah… tattered clothing, yellow shiner, busted lip and all.

It occurred to Nines he was being mocked. And, to be honest, the whole thing would have really pissed him off had Woeburne not been doing a pretty good job.

"There you have it. I've cracked the formula. Completely wasted on me," she announced, shaking off the persona in a heartbeat. That said, Seneschal Los Angeles took a final glance in the dingy mirror and gave her neckline one last tap with a moist rag. There was no more quaking. Considering the past hour, she seemed decently restored.

Nines fixed her with a concentrated stare.

"That supposed to make me laugh?"

"Not really," London said. "Did it? Because that would be telling."

The disbelieving way the Baron shook his head might have been conceding a point lost.

"I'm leaving now, and I suspect you will get another update once our experts analyze this. I recommend you wait for it before mobilizing. Until then, study the reports. I worked hard on them," Ms. Woeburne reminded, picked up her few surviving belongings, and made a beeline for the street. She let the door bang behind her. Boom, gone.


	55. Skid Row

**Skid Row**

The endtable was ripped from its place and hurled across the room, legs cartwheeling midair, frame steady. King ducked it.

"WORTHLESS SON-OF-A-BITCH," screamed their Ductus, chords raw and monstrous in Hallowbrook's floor-two lobby. Saliva glistened around Torres's mouth, its dry pink edges cracking. Bronze forearms gleamed in dim light. The cheap furnishing smashed into a moldering wall and splintered like a period to his sentence. "Shut the tear in your face, blood-sack. I ought to rip the scalp off your fat, empty head. Stupid enough to fuck up this ONE job I give you and drag your sorry carcass back here? Shit – I wish those fucking Anarchs caught you. Sniveling gutter lick. Don't you DARE look me in the eye."

Colton chopped his stare from Marcus and focused instead on the Brujah's shadow, lunging high along a chamber corner. Waterlogged paper peeled off the walls in antiquated hexagon strips. He felt nowhere near cocksure enough to tempt Torres's wrath tonight. King did not feel breakneck or willful or keen on disobeying a monster – but needed to keep peripheral watch in the likely event said monster heaved another projectile at him. The Gangrel was afraid, yes. Their warchief's rage terrified neonate shovelheads, even the maddest and most ignorant point-man. Colt wasn't so dumb as to think the Ductus wouldn't grab his jugular and shake chunks off like a fucking alligator. But he wasn't green enough to close both eyes and rely on that frothing tyrant's mercy (or bad aim), either; wood posts or fire pokers javelined through his stomach wouldn't make being scolded any easier.

"Tell me this is some sort of piss-poor joke. It's all a goddamn joke, isn't it? I mean – shit, it's gotta' be," the man snorted, crossing arms the color and texture of sandpaper over his chest. Gross cords of muscle shifted under sleek skin. Veins bulged beneath the short-shaven hair on his skull, pale bristles, curling around temples offset with wide cheekbones. He looked like a young heavyweight contender. "Jesus FUCKING Christ. Why the hell I continue tolerating this bullshit from your grade of morons is beyond me." Marcus hawked a glob of spit onto the shabby lavender rug. One boot toe rubbed it into a cigarette burn, dampening the dusty planks beneath. "Tell me somethin'. What good is this fucking pack to me when I can't trust a single one of you mutts to come crawling back from assignment with anything but your same old typical shit and your ass cheeks? I give you ONE ounce of responsibility and what the fuck do you do, King? What the fuck do you do?"

Colton might've been an ineffective assassin, but sure as shit wasn't stupid enough to get his leg caught in that bear trap. He stood firm and quiet across their otherwise silent antechamber, hunched posture working as evidence of submission, too smart for pointless arguing. Auburn hair curled raggedly around both ears, stubble thickening over his chin. _'Crazy motherfucker can say whatever the hell he wants,'_ the Gangrel tried to reassure himself, hands flexing in weathered jean jacket pockets._ 'I ain't losin' another body part. Not today.' _

And King certainly wasn't about to lose his life over some idiotic misunderstanding; no one else lingered here to back him up should an honest-to-God fight break out. When Torres had first bared fangs in the dim scone light – destroyed a shabby loveseat and roared "CLEAR OUT!" – Inés abandoned her erstwhile companion with a grim, low-lidded look. Shit. He didn't blame the girl. Hallowbrook's Ductus was known for a lot of things, including some serious Code Red insanity, but constraining his F4 tornado of a temper to guilty parties wasn't one of 'em.

Right now, Marcus was pacing with ferocity in mind, eyeing the slivers of birch scattered about. Colton stepped backwards and felt one crunch under his boot treads. He wasn't letting that rabid dog within strike distance. He'd learned his lesson. Rather than face Torres down in a vain fistfight for dignity, King made a note to look every bit the omega he was. The tender regrown flesh surrounding his ear burned wildly whenever their Ductus closed another step between them. He tensed. He swallowed.

He dipped beneath a glass lamp shade, ripped off the funerary wallpaper and chucked towards his face.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" Marcus snarled again, mouth gnashing like a woodchipper. The Brujah was nearly panting his disappointment. Spit bubbled from the vampire's mouth, a provoked St. Bernard. Colton remembered watching Cujo as a kid; his subconscious dredged up unwanted images, where a pretty woman in a tank-top sweltered inside their family car. That movie scared the piss out of him. He could recall the glazed look – the waning adrenaline of a young mother with her son withering in both arms. He could see how sweat outlined the beige shirt beneath the underwire of her bra. "You are really something else, boy. A real piece of class-A work. Can't even follow a goddamn order? When I SPECIFICALLY laid out everything you had to do for a win? Fft!" A hateful, mucusy snort. "You're a fucking wonder, King. Your blood ain't even good enough to grease the gears. Motherfucking Christ. I handed you that Cam's head on a silver platter, and you – _you_, shitface – found some way to fuck it up."

"I set that bomb. I did everything you told me," the Gangrel said, gulping a cactusy lump rising in his throat. He didn't know why he bothered trying to talk Marcus down. Wasn't his fault, of course… but that particular detail mattered less to their Ductus than the Anarch movement did to Jyhad. Bad luck and danger pay didn't factor into Torres's mind. You got the job done or you got licked. Would-be attempts to defend his capabilities as a foot-soldier probably shot him nearer to corporal punishment than forgiveness; new blood generally did whatever they could when an alpha had you up against the backboard like this. Shit. Colton might've been a fuck-up, but he wasn't a coward. The young Sabbat rasped his tongue over the decades-old scar tissue of an inner cheek. A lip ring had been torn out of it during some meaningless fistfight with two twitching cokeheads outside an Alabama crackhouse. A hundred dead bodies had stared at him across these many years, fish-still, some lost and some killed. No, he was no kind of goddamn coward.

"I stuck to the plan," King told him, stomach kicking. "By-the-letter. Maybe that juice was bad; I don't know. I don't know why it stalled. I didn't have any control over that. But I followed the-"

"The plan? Hah! Shit – you dumb motherfucker! Are you really wanting to talk to me about the _plan_…?" Marcus's mouthful of teeth twisted into a madcap, furious smile. He looked like a bull shark; manic expression stretched the angular creases of his chin. It held for five seconds before plummeting into a jaguar howl. "THE PLAN WAS FOR YOU TO SMOKE THAT BITCH," he bellowed, all gut and bile. "You think I'm gonna' tell Bishop you _tried_? That you gave it your _best_, numbnuts? How the FUCK do you expect that going over?" An acrid glob of saliva landed a few inches from Colton's toe. He swore to God it sizzled through the dirt-stained carpet. "Let me make something clear to you. This isn't a little accident. There aren't any fucking do-overs. We won't get another opportunity like that for another decade. And you come into my den, look at me like the stupid busted rubber you are, and your excuse is _what_…?"

"I did what you told me to do," King pushed, unable to offer anything more in his defense.

"Tell me one more time." Marcus cupped one hand to his ear and leaned in real close. The falsely innocuous gesture would've made other shock troops laugh, this one included; but as his target, it terrified. "You did _what_?"

"What you told me." Colt watched the weak oath slough itself off Torres's glassy stare. Managing that word was like coughing up a boulder. There was a quiet astonishment about the whole situation in that their Ductus hadn't killed him yet.

"Yeah? Well, then. I guess that means one of us fucked up royal, meat," Marcus scoffed, and spit again. He growled. He flattened a palm at Colton's collarbone and gave him a sudden, rough shove away. "It's not like I sent you barreling ass-over-ankles into the snake pit. Not like last time. All I asked you was to dust some bitch-ass Ventrue suit – shit, I _handed_ you that blueblood's ass – and you can't even do that. What the fuck can I even say to you? I met some morons in my time, you retard redneck asshole, but you take the fucking cake." Torres was less than six steps off, pondering grandly to himself, sauntering up to King in such a way that he could not escape. Two sets of boots cracked destroyed chair legs. The Gangrel fiercely wanted to back himself into a corner, small and dark – simply for the physical support of it pressed up against hunched shoulder-blades – but resisted. Showing fear to this world-ravaged boar would only multiply the chances of dying tonight. Instead, he stood still; the man froze, a hiker waiting for a grizzly to pass him by.

"You know what really rakes me, whelp? That Seneschal wasn't even the big payday prize. We could've been the pack to jackhammer right through the heads of these Anarch fucks downtown. Blown that slut's car sky-high. All you had to do. Could've been done already; we'd all be sittin' pretty on a stack of the Bishop's gratitude. Now. Why don't you tell me, shit-for-brains… had you _not_ screwed us all over, what would that scene have looked like to the Prince?"

Colton wasn't enough of an imbecile or a hero to respond. He did not look their Ductus in the flame-yellow eye.

Marcus sunk a fist into the footman's undershirt, nails scraping through a layer of skin.

"I know it's hard for you, King," the vampire hissed, bottom jaw dropping open to show long Brujah fangs. Torres's voice had flatlined from hoarse threats to a sinister lull. He loomed over the Gangrel; it took every bit of willpower boxed up in Colton's gut not to turn his cheek away. "You just can't keep shit straight. But _you_ want to know something about _me_? I don't really care. I don't care that your mama sucked on the rock, or that you got a horse kick in the skull, or that your daddy banged your sister – whatever the fuck is wrong with you – I don't give a shit. So you best listen to me, bitch, because I am only gonna' say this once."

He didn't stumble. He didn't cringe or apologize. King felt like he'd been pinned against boxing ropes, but kept both arms pinned at either side, swallowing the zinc that rose on his tongue. _Rope-a-dope_: sag and let the bigger threat tire. He did not want to see himself in Marcus's pupils – scared, paralyzed, shell of toughness thin as tissue-paper.

"You got _one_ more chance," the Ductus warned him, his words breathing contempt across Colton's face.

"One more chance," he said again, "and then I throw you to the fucking wolves."


	56. The Rainy Day

**The Rainy Day**

Serena's fingernails hit the wooden table in swift, Morse code bursts.

"_No,"_ Sebastian had said when she called him last night from the cramped back of a taxi cab. The Prince's voice was level, but she had heard tension beneath it – detected tightening vowels and punctuated consonants. _"There is no concrete proof pointing at the Anarchs for arranging that hit. But neither do we have enough evidence to exonerate them. I think you know what decision I must make. You are my Childe and recently Los Angeles's Seneschal, Ms. Woeburne. I can't risk your station in dealing with them."_ The firmness of his tone surprised her. She had expected suspicion and derision; she had not been egotistical enough to foster weak hopes Mr. LaCroix might actually fret, especially not for her sake. It made Serena suck breaths in the cool leather seats, burnt clothing itching, left hand holding shut that thick glass panel between herself and a clueless kine driver. She did not argue with him.

"_I appreciate the dangers in which you placed yourself and the lengths you went to strike this tentative truce – I truly do – but as your Sire and Prince, I cannot permit you continue,"_ he announced. In a handful of words and a magistrate's orders, Ms. Woeburne's contact with the downtown Anarchs was over.

The Ventrue had sat in that cab with a palm over her solar plexus, smiling stupidly, feeling a warm bubble of relief… and something else – something strange – that tasted like failure.

"_What should I do next?"_ she asked – a good corporal, waiting for orders. The vehicle hit a pothole and jiggled her suddenly, making Serena's stomach gurgle. She pinned the cell to her ear and stuck fingers into lightly singed brunette. There was a thin wave of outside air pushing through the sliver of space between window and car door; it was refreshingly, wonderfully cold.

"_Inform them you will no longer be serving as an advocate. Send a proxy, write an apologetic e-mail, call for a brief conference… do whatever you think appropriate, so long as your message is clear. You are perfectly capable of managing your own affairs, Ms. Woeburne. I trust you will make short work of this one. Please keep me updated, and do try to stay safe,"_ he told her, and hung up the telephone.

Morning passed without further calamity. Now Serena found herself sitting here – whacking ten digits into an empty corner table, located in some desolate coffee shop across from _Confession_ – waiting nervously for a jilted Baron to come stomping through the front door.

He was going to be very angry, she guessed – probably armed – and in no mood for a scot-free severance of their business arrangement. He'd skulk in with wild eyes, pitch up a defensive facade, call the Camarilla soldier "London" at least a dozen times and finally cuss her out when diplomacy shattered against a stony Ventrue wall. Yes, the Seneschal thought she had LA's old spokesman figured out rather well by this particular night. Knowing this about him, Ms. Woeburne had almost brought along a guard contingent, but reasoned that newfound political status and the bounds of his reputation prevented Nines from harming her. She was no longer a titleless crony, subject to fists and lightless basements; if Rodriguez desired a fight from all this aftermath, he'd assuredly look for one somewhere else. "Somewhere else" was in for an unfortunate ride, but that particular detail wasn't Serena's problem. Not yet, at least – not until Sebastian gave her further instructions.

She banged her nails harder into the oak, fiddling, listening intently for the bell that hung over this depressing place's door to chime. It was a dismal corner joint. Once-warm burgundy wallpaper had accumulated dust and begun to crack above the vents; window panes gathered cobwebs. One claustrophobic bar hugged the room's far side, backlit by neon bulbs and a lead-eaten mirror. The establishment couldn't support large crowds, even on its best days – not that such a thing was of remote concern. Few clientele frequented this venue. They included three types: tired, hungry _Confession_ strippers limping in for six AM breakfast; an occasional beat cop, taking advantage of the _Open 24-Hours_ sign out front; and unlucky out-of-towners that didn't know any better. Not the dregs of society, certainly, but far from its finest. Tonight, there were a grand total of two patrons and one exhausted-looking waiter to keep her company. Serena spoke to no one, and no one spoke to the apprehensive-looking exec with a trench coat and a persistent jiggle stuck in her knee.

Nines hadn't wanted to meet her here – that much he made clear. After all, it was just yesterday the Anarch established stubborn terms for their future correspondence. Those terms changed when her Audi exploded all over _The Last Round_'s parking lot, however… or so she explained on the telephone forty-five minutes ago. Rodriguez snorted and slammed down his receiver. Ms. Woeburne doubted he would've shown up were it not for several dropped hints that this rendezvous involved city security; as it stood, though, she felt assured her Free-State contact would eventually come prowling in.

The Ventrue had a nagging notion he already suspected what this conference was really about. She wasn't precisely sure why… but there had been distinct, particular chagrin to the way he smashed down that phone.

He'd better not threaten her with similar treatment, however – snubbed mouthpiece or not. Serena had covered all the bases just in case, reporting both to Prince LaCroix and her modest crew of assistants. She was perfectly aware of being Seneschal, but she was also not about to overestimate Anarch courtesy. One played a treacherous game in trusting Jyhad heavyweights, Camarilla or otherwise; while only gullible Kindred vested faith in their fellows, it was usually possible to be somewhat confident without being completely moronic. Ms. Woeburne expected this discussion to be ugly but nonviolent. After last night, though, she prepared for either scenario. It would be foolish not to.

Serena took one more miserable look around the drab, tar-stained scene, noted she ought've been smoking, and pushed out a sigh.

The officer unclicked cellular from hip holster and placed it neatly upon her tabletop. She had two stored messages from a young (and extremely impatient) Tremere visitor seeking Sebastian's audience; the other three were all polite declarations of presence from vampires who would soon be passing through. Woeburne had run checks on their names, determined them to be valid, and gave her formal permission to conduct business in Mr. LaCroix's Domain; she'd afterwards sent a brief notice to the Prince with profiles attached. He hadn't commented, so Serena assumed either her Sire didn't bother double-checking his references or that she'd done the right thing. Screening guests was an easy duty, true, but it increased the woman's solidarity to know her judgment didn't disappoint. She just had to maintain this balancing routine for… well, however long he required.

Or until someone finally succeeded in blowing her up. Whichever came first, really.

Ms. Woeburne swiveled her phone about with an index finger, figuring that being hunted by the Sabbat at least ensured she'd make a dramatic exit. This awful _hanging around_ was getting her nerves a bit riled, though – not that they needed any help – and with every minute the room lacked Brujah, she began to worry Nines wasn't coming at all.

Her escalating anxieties snapped short when the door jangled open, and a blond head popped in.

"Howdy," Kent-Alan said, winked at her, and slid into the chair across from Serena so smoothly it felt as if she'd arranged this meeting with him.

The Ventrue stared at her unwanted tablemate for a moment, unblinking, trying to formulate a greeting that fit this irritating turn. Choosing only one or two insults from the lengthy list that flashed behind her tongue proved difficult. This was especially true when there was a veritable mountain to throw at this moseying, lank-limbed, ambivalent Toreador who grinned lazily at her. He'd pulled the seat out and spun it around for good show before plunking down, brazen as ever. Ms. Woeburne saw the bunched up, too-short corduroy sleeves and thought about shoving them away before deciding it too rough an action for proper Seneschals. She was supposed to be diplomatic. She was supposed to be civilized. But from the whole lot of familiar downtown Anarchs, Serena liked this scraggly-haired boy least of all. There was something overly human about him that reeked of campuses and the tipsy, lackadaisical droll of male twenty-something. Ms. Woeburne could not say she was fond of either.

The Prince's Childe had always frowned harshly upon brutishness and cocksure Brujah posturing, but she _especially_ loathed their immaturity. Bundling it up in a beachy, boyish tumbleweed of Toreador only intensified her displeasure – and for a sore fifteen seconds, Woeburne wondered very seriously if this was Mr. Rodriguez's way of standing her up.

'_Stood up by a displaced Baron?'_ Oh, like hell. This was an embarrassing low.

"What, pray tell, am I supposed to do with _you_?" Serena asked, lips pursed, one brow arched halfway up her forehead. There was no response Kent could've given that would satisfy the vinegary Ventrue.

He must've seen this – or perhaps didn't care – because the Anarch thunked an elbow onto the table and leaned forward, chin propped in hand. "As far as I'm concerned, milady, you can do anything you'd like with me. But that'd probably tweak the boss. Yours _and_ mine." He soaked up her poisonous glare like a good-humored sponge. (Ms. Woeburne did not smile back. She didn't even consider it.) "Afraid it's all business tonight. But don't count me out. Who knows, right? I might be more useful than you think."

Serena was skeptical – not that this was an unusual state for a Childe of Sebastian LaCroix. Her teeth glistened crossly. The snaps upon her coat threw lampshine about in an intimidating way. "How could you possibly be of any use to me?"

"I'm glad you asked," Kent whistled, rapping a palm against the wood. He was remarkably shifty, now that the woman took a closer look. Though Rodriguez's minion came strolling in with slack joints and a seemingly carefree expression, copper eyes were darting about the place – they skimmed corners, roved walls, and explored shadows – botching any semblance of nonchalance. Yellow bangs skirted over his brow, its lines on edge. Woeburne caught the ruse surely as she reviled narcissistic smirks on young faces. This woman had witnessed more than enough ambushes to spot a scout by now. "There are plenty of things I can do, actually. Not to sound big-headed," the Toreador continued. He was now cataloguing the curtained stairwell behind Serena, but his efforts at distracting her failed. "Sure, I could hand you a resume – that's the sort of thing you corporates like, isn't it? – but I'd rather just chat. Nines is a stand-up joe as well as a good friend of mine but the man monopolizes you and it just isn't fair. We never get time to sit down together, do we? "

The Ventrue's gaze was flatter than contact paper.

"I'm going to ask you one more time," she said. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Kent-Alan blinked. "Oh, I'm just here to inspect the place a bit," he told her, admission sliding between the vampire's smiling teeth. "You know. Make sure you aren't pulling a fast one. I'm a harbinger – that's what I am. Are those new boots, by the way? Because they are very flattering. Trust me; I've seen a few nice legs in my time, Seneschal, but you have got some truly legendary calves."

"Is that so."

The Toreador's grin snipped a nerve. "Would I lie to you?"

"I'm losing my patience. Let me save you some time and some more self-serving flattery. I will not," Woeburne declared, mimicking her Sire's ultimatums, "discuss business with you that belongs between myself and Mr. Rodriguez. But I will not wait half the night on an alliance I barely want. If you don't get him here within the next half hour, I will stand up and walk out of this building, and the fault will rest solely on you. Are we understood?"

"Maybe I'm more like a satellite," he pondered, and Serena debated whether or not she should simply cuff the boy upside his uncombed mug.

"Are you off your fucking trolley?" A stiff question, well-enunciated, canines grinding against one another. "Leave."

Playboy snickered happily at her.

"I love the way you talk," he mused. The hand that had been pillowing his jaw moved to Kent-Alan's collar and flipped it outwards, tugging fabric towards his mouth. "Don't you love the way she talks, Nines?"

There was a wire taped down to that rust-colored jacket flap.

"Kinda annoys me, to be honest," the Brujah muttered and shouldered in, letting the door bang shut behind him.

"You sent a decoy. Excessive. Oddly enough, I had thought we'd gotten past all this," Ms. Woeburne greeted him, displeased, removing her arms from the table as Rodriguez exchanged places with his lackey. Mistrust was to be expected in Jyhad clashes of all calibers, of course, but the Ventrue felt genuinely put out by this go-between. She watched Nines thump into the chair and scoot loudly backwards, remembering their meeting in Good Samaritan Hospital several months ago. The Anarch's expression was an indecipherable disgruntled. There was nothing friendly about him – all restlessness, overarching disapproval and leather. It was a scene that smacked of regression. Being who and what she was, Serena hated regression.

"So did I," he barked, arms crossing in a black coat with under-padding that looked vaguely kevlarish. Kent-Alan was standing just abreast – with that same irksome, digging grin on his pretty face. She noted the contour of a pistol grip pressing against his green t-shirt.

"Looks like we're all here,'" the Toreador chirped, clicking his tongue. Rodriguez was scowling at a spot on the floor.

Baron Los Angeles dismissed him with a grunt. "Don't go far."

"You got it, el capitan," Playboy guaranteed. That said, he swiveled around and sauntered over to a booth hugging the door. Those jumpy brown eyes supervised the street through large glass window panels, lingering over _Confession_'s parking lot, tracing curbs, counting vehicles that grumbled by.

Ms. Woeburne was very suddenly and very poignantly tired. She rubbed thoughtlessly at her eyes, pushing mascara into them and blinking it away.

"You must be wondering why I've called you here like this," the Seneschal began, drawing up her prewritten script and deciding it all tasted like shit. "We've both got other matters on our minds right now, so I won't beat around the bush. But before I proceed, I do want to say that I'm sorry about this. You won't find any weight in my apology, I'm sure, but there it is. I never intended… _hmm_," she cut, air venting discontentedly through her nose, pitching that start away. "I didn't plan for things to end up as they have. You must understand that my position has changed dramatically. I don't mean to insinuate anything, or imply that I know something I'm withholding from you. But that's just it. I don't know." Serena bit her cheek. "I don't know what to believe at the moment, and that's why I've had to call you here to tell you what I'm going to tell you."

Nines glared at her as though he already knew what Woeburne was about to say.

"Yesterday evening," she went on (because 'last night' sounded like too much of a heist). "There was an incident, as you know. The Camarilla would very much like to call this an _isolated_ incident, but considering the circumstances… well. Bearing in mind my recent promotion…" _Shift_. "Like you, I err on the side of caution. While we haven't looked into court appeals – and won't be doing so any time in the near future – my organization feels the location of that ambush is cause for concern. Don't mistake us; the Sabbat are not a threat that discriminates. But. Taking into account…" Serena fidgeted, swallowing a frustrated breath. "It's just that the timing was very convenient, you must admit… and given that, it's not inappropriate to play it-"

"Hold on," Rodriguez groused from beneath a dark glower and a prickly layer of disbelief. "I _know_ you aren't trying to point your finger at me after all this."

The Ventrue's hands clenched around her seat. Sebastian had been concise; clarity, directness and brief warnings confined fear. "_You_ brought me there," she reminded him, tongue sour. "Should I be satisfied that some lecture about your reputation is an accurate picture of the whole truth? Look at this from our position. The Camarilla and your Anarchs have been short-lived friends, could you even call a ceasefire grounds for friendship. And this only because we fight a mutual enemy. I'm aware the Sabbat endanger you just as they do me; I would never try to suggest you were working with those mutts. But there are possibilities an administrator in my position has to prepare for. Who's to say you didn't arrange for a footman to 'happen upon' the Seneschal's car?"

Nines's fangs stretched past his upper lip.

"Wait just a fucking minute. I PULLED YOUR FLAILING ASS OFF THE GODDAMN PARKING LOT," he boomed, screeching forward in the wooden chair. She leant sharply back. It was reflex. The Brujah was bristling already, molars grinding, _pissed_ surging steadily to _enraged._

"I was there," Serena agreed, reply quiet. There was a lingering sting in her forearms from where the R8's window shards had burrowed in. They itched beneath long sleeves.

"So what? You're packing your end of the operation up – leaving us to sink or swim? Because according to your Sire, it 'might' have been my plan? That's fair. And look how nice it works out for him. Then what, exactly?" the Anarch asked, aggression in his flippancy, one eyebrow arched dangerously. He leaned forward. It read like a threat in every edge, resentment two more disappointments from boiling over, needles sharpened to dig. "You planning on letting me fry for the next building they raze? Is that objective C?"

Her attempts to defuse the bomb were plain and concise. "I already assured you that wouldn't be the case. We aren't pressing this issue any further. Not through official channels, and not through-"

"Look at me. Do you really think I give a fuck about your official channels? Let me remind you something – something less about details and more about surviving the next week. You almost got blown to bits last night. Not LaCroix. Not your organization. _You_. Do you _really_ think this is a good time to lose my vote, Woeburne? Is that _really_ the move you want to make?"

She could not rein it at bay. Consolations dropped to a low, frank voice. Sage eyes crinkled unpleasantly. "Do you _really_ expect I'd rely upon Anarch support either way?"

It was not the right thing to say. She could watch this unfortunate comment, how wrong her conceit had been, inventory on Nines's face immediately; the temperature dropped twenty degrees. He stared at her. There was a pause. The look was blank; the temper roiled beneath it, blackening thin ice.

Woeburne calmed herself with a lungful of oxygen. She produced company condolences. "I understand why you're upset-"

"Great," the Brujah chuffed. His look turned from chagrined to accused, fists forming around the table ridge, hatreds tightening. Prince LA's Childe could see his nostrils flare.

"But what you need to keep in perspective is-"

"That's just FUCKING great, Woeburne. Just like a fucking Ventrue," Nines snarled, hunching, posture reverting into something less manipulative and more heated. Serena's coolness began to wane as his anger came unstitched. Blue could've melted through steel as his eyes concentrated fiercely into a small space somewhere beyond her left arm. "You get your collar ruffled so you go running off and leave my people in the snake pit because you can't handle-"

The Seneschal's conclusion was cold, but it was accurate. "You did the _exact_ same thing in my position, Nines."

His response was the dull 'BAM!' of both fists crashing onto the table.

"Sorry, ma'am. Are you having a problem?" Ms. Woeburne glanced up to see the waiter standing behind her with a White Russian bottle in one hand. The gangly, well-meaning child eyed Rodriguez sidelong, a mortal with an auburn cowlick and pockmarked face. The Anarch did not bother looking back at him. Silver irises were too busy boring holes in the Ventrue's skull, rings glistening on his knuckles.

"No. Thank you," Serena told the boy, knowing that he'd absolutely no inkling of what she'd just saved him from.

He gave Nines one last, wary glimpse before wandering back to the bar.

Ms. Woeburne took a final deep breath, a prelude to parting ways. Both the vampire's hands were spidered across her thighs, worrying fabric; she grimaced. "I suppose we should cut this short. I'm not sure what more I ought to say to you, but I hope-"

"You don't need to say jack shit to me, you ungrateful Camarilla bitch," he spat, stood up, and everything lurched to a stop.

Serena saw the windows shatter before she heard a single shot.

Bullet hails crippled the venue's front, crumbling it, underscored by the jingle-bell pandemonium of glass bouncing on cement. Machinegun ammo punched holes through foundations and shredded wood. Bottles and drink machines erupted, liquid glugging out. The Seneschal had no time to cover her ears as she watched, in suspended animation, cushion chunks blown from furniture and mirrors crashing off walls. There wasn't enough opportunity to scream. Bulbs burst. Blood splattered barstools. Enamel chips went flying from clean counters. Nines upended their table and leapt to the far side of it, disappearing behind a thick panel of oak. Through no conscious action, Ms. Woeburne found herself halfway across the room, ducking against a stairwell threshold for cover.

The place had been mowed stamp-flat in a matter of milliseconds. It was a B-movie, Serena thought, almost laughing at the ridiculousness had she not registered a bitter _zing_! tear along her bicep. The woman was unable to attend to it. M16s continued railing them for another solid minute; a shell glanced off the waiter's head, colliding with his right socket, sending bone and eye matter sailing vertically midair. (There were two other kine here, both plowed over ages ago; this was obvious only from the sheer amount of plasma plastering these floors, too much red for one body.) It didn't matter. The Ventrue's right foot slipped, and she glanced down to find herself standing in a tide pool of spilt decaf. Could this possibly be them happening _again_? She must've laughed; she must have. The misfortune was too flawless and terrible. An assassin had rigged her Audi just last night and _now the Sabbat_ _or whoever the hell are spraying into a bloody coffee shop even I can't believe this nonsense Why in the hell does this shit always happen to me I should have commissioned those bodyguards Well this settles it I am never running Sebastian's errands ever again without a regiment behind me I can't be expected to work like this…_

Fingers mindlessly gripping her stricken arm, Serena slid farther down the doorframe, realizing she was deaf. She looked at her wound; it oozed blood, smelled like powder, and had a fragment of gold metal buried in it. She looked at the minced sleeve of her coat. She looked over at Nines, hunkered behind his makeshift barricade; he looked back at her, his expression bizarrely clear through the crossfire. Vision intensified – perhaps due to the injury, perhaps the preternatural thing within – but there was certainly no way those shells were moving so slowly. They would tumble, bounce, plink. She could see dust motes hanging in midair. Ms. Woeburne expected her bullet hole ought to start hurting pretty soon, and felt a needle-point of aggravation, knowing the suspense was probably worse than the pain. She watched a table leg blasted into splinters on Rodriguez's opposite side and monitored his flinch.

Then the gunners either ran out of ammunition or time – because firing ceased, tires squealed loudly outside, and stillness returned. It had happened in a matter of seconds. It was over almost before it began. It wasn't quite reality, yet; it was _not_ her first battlefield, but it _was_ the first time Serena had ever been shot. Her hit limb was a muddle of sensory confusion and dead, slack-jawed nerves. She didn't feel a thing. She wasn't even afraid – tonight, there'd been no time to panic or even ponder losing her lunch.

Still grabbing her wound, reeling, Los Angeles's Seneschal pushed herself upright along the doorframe and walked back into the gutted main room. Litter crunched under boot heels. She stopped. She stared.

There was no trace of the Toreador – save for the ragged orange corduroy dangling in Nines's hand, ash sifting off its lapels.

It looked like a pasta strainer. It was dark, dark red.

The Brujah didn't say anything. Ms. Woeburne didn't say anything. She blinked at him, unable to explain what had just transpired, and he did not accuse her. But there was a mute sense of doubt behind his blank blue gaze that put no one beyond reproach.

Without speaking, her arm dribbling blood, the Ventrue left through an alley exit just in time to hear police sirens howl.

* * *

**THE VINE STILL CLINGS TO THE MOULDERING WALL,**  
**BUT AT EVERY GUST THE DEAD LEAVES FALL  
-**_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_


	57. Andras

**Andras**

_I am not a man of blood; and God is my witness that in all my wars I have never been the aggressor, and that my enemies have always been the authors of their own calamity.  
- Timur_

* * *

"No. No, you misunderstand me. I make no such assumptions of you, Maximillian. I am not nearly so crass as that. But when I accepted this position as Prince, I made Los Angeles a guarantee of decisive leadership – not of constant wavering and fickle juries. I will not waste your time or my Sheriff's on a Sabbat witch hunt. Rest assured, however, I _will _deal with this problem in my own way. Yes. That is correct. Have a good night, Regent," Sebastian LaCroix bid, hung up the telephone, and leant forward in his high-backed office chair.

It was very quiet in Venture Tower's penthouse for the next minute – a novelty, these nights. Across his lofty and polished chamber, red furniture stood unoccupied. The chamber's whites and royal golds were undisturbed by paranoid Primogen or other discordant company; corners were spacious, clean and colossal. The tall windows at his back were uncurtained and open to a cloudy October evening. Candles went unlit. Electricity-fed fire lapped steadily in its wire cage. Above him, the daunting chandelier was static; its crystal embellishments did not twirl, and its heavy chain did not softly sway. The enameled desk boasted no foreign fingerprints. For Prince LaCroix, tonight was a still one, indeed.

The Ventrue mulled for a moment, long, cold fingers interlacing beneath his delicate chin.

Things were not going _exactly_ as planned, but they had nevertheless fallen into place rather nicely.

Sebastian pondered it for another five seconds, tapped a fountain pen on his desktop, and picked up the receiver. One digit punched in a well-known series of numbers.

"I just heard," he said when she answered, the haste in her greeting revealing its owner's shambled nerves. LaCroix's voice was concerned and measured. His eyebrows dented towards the man's sharp nose. "Serena, are you all right? Tell me where you are, and I will send someone for you."

"_Yes. Yes, I'm fine. I'm fine."_ She swore it twice, tone taut, confirming this fact to herself. Ms. Woeburne often lapsed into repetition when anxiety gnawed at her core. He imagined the woman's face was skewed out of proportion with poor attempts to look collected. _"I'm at, ah… I'm just turning onto Main Street. You don't need to send anyone. Ms. Gutierrez was in the area when word went out and she came to intercept me. She was very good – very quick to respond. We are currently heading to my residence at the Empire Hotel. I'll be there in twenty minutes or so, from the looks of traffic." _

"I see. I shall extend Ms. Gutierrez my personal commendation once this mess is dealt with." (Untrue. Gutierrez was a capricious, tier-climbing retriever with no business in the central circles of his rulership.) "But be candid. Are you certain you're unharmed?" he pressed once more, just for convincingness's sake. "Isaac relayed tonight's incident to me as according to Mr. Rodriguez, who reported you were injured in the crossfire. Not very gravely, I assume; you sound put together well enough. That is fortunate. I understand our Anarch associate also escaped in more or less one piece."

The Seneschal tongued her lips, swallowing audibly. There was a flicker of hesitation. _"He did. He left intact, and I don't think he was hit. He took the news of our withdrawal from this truce quite sorely, though. We went our separate ways after the gunfire died down,"_ she confirmed. Prince LaCroix already knew this, of course; had his muzzled dog been badly wounded or reduced to ash, the call from Baron Abrams would have been of an entirely different nature. Still, it was healthy to stoke the girl's sense of duty once in a while. _"But there was a casualty. One of his underlings was destroyed. There shouldn't be any eyewitnesses; they were all killed. The venue is completely smashed. It was… it happened very fast," _the Ventrue explained, duress dampening her account. _"I'm afraid I didn't get visual confirmation on our attackers. I was shot. In my arm. Left bicep. I'm sorry."_

"That's too bad, but I am relieved you are safe," he assured her.

He smirked.

It was not an expression of satisfaction at his Childe's expense; not at all. Mr. LaCroix had no vindictive desires to see Serena harmed; that woman orchestrated her own deadly faux pas well enough unaided. He did, however, have an agenda this evening – one that could not afford to be wetted down by guardian affections or even a peripheral sense of fondness.

Ugly Anarch machinations were behind yesterday evening's Black Hand explosion – of this, shrewd Prince Los Angeles had little doubt. They were the most likely culprits, at any rate; alternatives were possible, but too convenient, and _true_ coincidences did not exist in this world. You could coordinate them well enough, if not the outcomes: Leopold attacks at Santa Monica Pier, Giovanni coups, an ill-timed encounter on Interstate 10 that unfortunately ended with ruckus rather than appealing blackmail material. But _coincidence_? No, no. This precious commodity and the false notion of _good faith_ were luxuries only kine were insipid enough to enjoy. The disenfranchised Baron's motives for staging an assassination were plentiful: he might've meant for that violent blow to succeed, to frame the Sabbat before they did the same to him; needed a rallying cry to stimulate Camarilla support, possibly for a march against Hollywood; or simply sought to send a message by threatening LA's new Seneschal. Vaunted gestures of common man heroics were commonplace, these nights… so were Anarch car bombs. Perhaps he had rigged the vehicle himself, or perhaps merely dropped indirect hints for a passing Ductus. Frankly, it did not matter. Sebastian had a message of his own.

The Sabbat/Anarch confrontations had come at an all too ideal time. Those slavering dogs went lunging for one another's throats at the drop of a pin; having pit them against each other, no further suspects were needed. Any blood shed during this warfare could be attributed to either sect. Any murdered lieutenants or dead spokesmen were casualties of a guerilla battlefield his cabinet had no part in but to mediate. Martyrs were acceptable downsides to crushed uprisings, so long as they were not anti-Camarilla martyrs. Besides… using barbarians as scapegoats seemed like poetic justice.

Surprising that some Black Hand footmen had overheard the name _Ankaran Sarcophagus_ – perhaps Ms. Mira was in need of a lecture on censorship. It did not matter, though; the pathetic local branches could wreak no lasting damage upon his estates. He would have been irritated had sharpshooters gunned his Childe down in Chicago – if those beasts were even aware of Serena's lineage – and further incensed should specifics about this artifact find their way into a Tremere mailbox. All moot, however. She had done well. And her discovery of some foolish Bishops' conspiracy to target the Free-State had made possibility into opportunity; it had unexpectedly sharpened his knife.

Distraction from Camarilla defense, distraction from Camarilla aggression… it was all the same war.

The Seneschal's death – before their so-called alliance had run full course – would have been inconvenient and insulting; he had no doubts about this, whatever those miscreant Anarchs' intentions had been. But now? Jyhad had an ironic way of boxing up such token occasions and stamping them Return to Sender. _Now_ he had alibis to strike freely. Sabbat could take the blame… as a matter-of-fact – hah! – he doubted those swaggering fanatics would deny it. Killed progenies were upsetting, surely, but the killing of court titles was a much more precarious business than slaughtering idle Foremen. She was significant now – not just to Sebastian, but to this city. The bloody handprint could be traced to a Free-State idol, an initiative that might bring his downfall should the Rabble rise up or Isaac need a reminder to walk soft. It was a distasteful scenario, but one he'd considered before her feet touched American soil.

And, as per tonight: one clever, discreet Childe – with legal ties to a magistrate Sire and an uncrowned Baron – could put this empire beyond reproach.

Rodriguez had lived, of course – as he suspected the Brujah might – which was disappointing, but quite according to plan. Prince LaCroix never expected this would be easy. Exterminating Anarch cannonfodder had been undemanding business, all things considered… but if organizing their war chief's death was child's play, some enterprising young Ventrue would have delivered his severed head already. Amusingly enough, he supposed the closest their agents had come to eradicating this troublesome character had been Ms. Woeburne's own idiotic high-speed collision. Automotive clashes were flashy gestures, recklessness with the punch for legendary outcome. It wasn't enough to make Sebastian proud – it was headstrong clan moxie, actually – but it positively _had_ made him laugh. There was a lesson to be learned in that catastrophe. Serena – neurotic, fumbling, fussing child – since shaped into the finest weapon her progenitor had against Nines Rodriguez… one that was disarming in its undeserved arrogance, and tempting in her relationship to the man's political rival.

Mr. LaCroix did not know if the whipped old Baron could _possibly_ be cocksure enough to think he might genuinely sway Ms. Woeburne to his campaign, but it was gratifying to watch him juggle her – puffed-up, tentative – prodding for the Seneschal's true purpose just as a boy pokes at a rattlesnake he suspects is dead. He is confident, but he cannot afford to be complacent. Not yet. Not until he is absolutely sure.

Like the boy and the rattlesnake, Nines Rodriguez flirts with death – itching for power, and impetuously risking all for reins he does not have.

Sebastian paused; he allowed his corporal to settle for a breath, clutching a cloth to her scabbing arm in the back of Ms. Gutierrez's gold Impala. Serena spoke calmly, enunciating every word, but she was physically pained and emotionally distressed. He could hear her inhale across the line.

His cards were placed; the cups were poisoned; his dagger was beneath the table.

The Prince extended a courteous offer. "Do you want to come in, Ms. Woeburne?" he asked, a suggestion unusually full of sympathy. "I can make an opening for you. You should head over to my office right away if you feel as though you need to."

Mr. LaCroix still had no "my dears" with which to praise her, but in comparison to these last few months, it was a tone remarkably closer to the familiar way they used to convene. He had not relished the notion of placing his Childe in violent jeopardy this evening, but such sacrifices were a gruesome necessity of their position. It was crucial to arrange one's pawns in their proper squares before opening fire. Though Sebastian did not tremble at the thought of retribution from Los Angeles's misbegotten rebels, it would not do for the Primogen to grow skittish about their gerent. They were a bothersome and fearful bunch, but one that could bring to life substantial problems for Camarilla lords… particularly those in socially volatile Domains. Serena played her role without a hitch. Twice now she had placed their administration beyond reproof when bullets began to fly, and also made an excellent show of her Sire's tolerance for lesser factions. She had turned out all right, besides.

He planned on telling the girl one day – one day, when he thought she could handle an unabridged knowledge of her Sire's schemes.

And he had made his point: Sebastian LaCroix would not be intimidated. The ambitious Prince would not be side-stepped, mocked or harassed, and he would in no way be taken for a fool. Not by the West Californian Anarchs, and especially not by Nines Rodriguez.

"_No,"_ Ms. Woeburne said – lips pursed, fingers folded tightly – recalibrating into something worthy of the woman's new office. He could tell how very badly his fledgling wanted to scuttle back to her Sire's coattails. Perhaps she had learned how little esteem that would earn her, however, because Serena declined such meaningless comforts. _"No, I'm OK. My apartment is secure enough to keep a few Sabbat trigger-pullers at bay. I'll go get things sorted out and see if I can't scrape together a better account of what happened for you."_

"I would appreciate that," the Prince granted. He weighed her promise against his Childe's manufactured firmness. After the slaughter that had just taken place, Mr. LaCroix was hesitant to shuttle her off to another corporate task; he did not fear for Serena's psyche as much as he did her job performance. It was critical that LA's new Seneschal proved fit for her station – else the meddling Primogen might petition to replace her. Sebastian could not abide anyone else in this role. Ms. Woeburne's skill sets were not nearly as irreplaceable as her submission to his decisions – political, professional and personal. He would not permit some court-appointed busybody nosing about in the affairs of this Domain.

Judging the young Ventrue's fortitude satisfactory, he presented her next goal. "Before you overburden yourself with reports, I ought to mention that Beckett called this evening. He will be flying here in two nights, around eight o'clock on the twenty-ninth. If there is any extra time to be found in your schedule… I'd like for you, personally, to pick him up at the airport."

"_Oh. Yes. Of course I will,"_ Serena guaranteed. Her voice tightened another decibel, but there was a sudden jump that made it lighter. She liked the Gangrel; LaCroix could tell. He did not particularly care one way or the other, but this high regard for Beckett served his purposes, both in that Ms. Woeburne's hyper-attention might sidetrack their visitor from unfavorable investigations and in that she'd cater to him so her Sire wouldn't have to. Sebastian respected the scholar as a vital component to his long-term plans, but was rattled by that sighing academic's sense of superiority. Self-centered and arrogant – typical of all Elders, regardless of rank. He had weathered more than enough insolence from older vampires by this day and year. _"Not a problem. I'll clear my Thursday night." _

The Prince lifted his pen to scratch out a brief note for Joelle. Even now, that ridiculous woman would be idling downstairs, useless until called upon. _Hah_. In Mlle. Lefevre was one more reason to keep his punctual Childe alive: proper officers took so long to train. "Excellent. While I don't mean to tax you any further, Serena, I'll rest much easier knowing his welcome into our home will be adequate. You'll find the information on Beckett's flight and living arrangements waiting in your inbox. All complimentary; I'm sure they will suffice. But, naturally, you are to take the professor wherever he'd like."

"_I'd be glad to, Mr. LaCroix. Except, er… I don't have a car," _she reminded him, an embarrassed and uneasy nod to that first failed assassination.

"Ah. Yes, of course not. I'll send Joelle out to buy you a new one immediately." (Sebastian had forgotten this niggling detail. There were too many more important angles to stew on.) "She'll drop it off in your parking space and leave the keys with a lobby clerk. Is there a particular make or color you prefer?"

"_Not really, no,"_ the Seneschal murmured, an inane courtesy that caught its recipient off-guard. He had never bothered asking her before. _"Anything with four wheels will do."_

The Prince graced her with a single chuffle of laughter. Blue lips twisted around his fangs. "That's what I admire about you, Ms. Woeburne – you are always so very practical. I'll tell her to get you a Jaguar."

"_Sir, you don't need to make a-"_

"Take care, Serena," LaCroix said, and sat down the receiver.

He adjusted his tie, unfastened his cufflinks, and tilted back in the imposing black chair. Outside, grey clouds deepened to murky indigo. The temperature continued to drop; a week's worth of rainy weather made the coastal atmosphere thick and cool. Wind pushed into windowsills. The fireplace was still popping away.

Sebastian LaCroix sat alone in his office. The Sarcophagus sat in an empty room one floor below, limestone gathering dust in the dark.


	58. Good Hospitality

**Good Hospitality **

The first thing Beckett saw, when he rounded the deboarding line and stepped out into Terminal 21C, was a wildly waving hand.

"Beckett! Beckett, over here," Serena Woeburne was calling, springing up from behind the back of a waiting room chair and clicking rapidly over to where he stood. The Gangrel grimaced around his smile and greeted LaCroix's Childe with a dipped hat and a nod. Her heels were amazingly loud against the arrivals wing tile, suit dark above scuffed white linoleum, stride overeager and rushed. The Ventrue shouldered through a mass of business commuters to salute him.

"Hello," she was saying, grinning, grabbing for his hand. It crunched limply in the Seneschal's oppressive shake. Beckett was impressed that a girl could be so overbearing, her middle-toned, forcibly upbeat voice cutting through kine chatter. She'd come up in the world since they'd last met, but he saw no real difference beyond new confidence - a confidence that seemed staged. Ms. Woeburne still looked every bit the clerical deputy: reserved, well-dressed, all politeness and power-walking. "Hello and welcome. Welcome to our city. I can't tell you how glad we are that you've made it. Mr. LaCroix cannot wait to speak with you face-to-face. How was your flight? May I take that for you?"

Beckett shifted his bag to keep it away from the grasping fingers. She took a hint, stepped out of the scholar's personal space, and then suddenly noticed he was not traveling alone. "Oh," the officer stuttered, backpedaling, confused and trying to determine whether or not this spelled trouble for her report. Green eyes flickered to and fro. A dark lock bounced behind one ear. "I'm so sorry," she told the elderly man in the button-up vest. He blinked, barraged by her enthusiasm, arthritic hands smoothing down his worn windbreaker. "I didn't even see you there. My name is Ms. Woeburne; Serena Woeburne, with the LaCroix Foundation. I'm here to pick you up."

"This is Dr. Ingvar Johansen." Beckett gestured to the owlish academic. They were an odd and disturbing pair in the crowded airport – an eerie, preternatural figure in a trench coat followed closely by one tottering, balding historian. She sensed no otherworldly aura about him, but you could see in her stare and wrinkled nose that Prince LA's Childe wondered exactly how much this human knew. Ingvar Johansen did not appear to be afraid of the vampire… not directly, at least. There was a bewildered air about him, however, that went beyond frail age. He was helpless. He was vaguely aware of this fact, too – and so clung fast to the Gangrel's listless shadow, permitting himself be led because there was no other option. "He's a friend of mine and an expert on Assyrian culture. Doctor, Ms. Woeburne."

Serena's urbane young face crinkled cheerfully, though it was obvious the unannounced tagalong had derailed her script. "I see. Well, far be it from me to turn down an expert opinion. Excellent, in fact. Pleased to meet you. Thank you for coming," she said, and shook Johansen's knobby hand. "Any friend of Beckett's is a friend of mine."

"Likewise." The voice was shaky, Norwegian and theatrical – a character slipped from clichéd European horror. He turned to the male Kindred with bleary wonder in watery, grayish eyes. "You certainly have a lot of friends, Beckett."

"Ms. Woeburne is the daughter of a business associate," the Gangrel said, and she looked a bit crestfallen at this disclosure, a downgrade from 'friend.' Serena seemed generally happy to see him, for all her rigidness and formalities; hardly good company, but she was not completely unbearable. Beckett gazed neutrally at them both over tinted glasses. His sable hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, face hidden beneath the shade of its signature akubra. He did not appear particularly jetlagged or excited. "Once you handed me those files, I put Ingvar in touch with the Giovanni excavation team – sent him along with my personal recommendation. He was quite instrumental, as I knew he would be. Now that their fieldwork is complete, the doctor has courteously offered to assist me in further research. I was hoping we might drop him off at Empire Arms before proceeding to our meeting."

The Seneschal's response was excessively positive. "Of course! Do you have any luggage? I can run over and-"

"Ingvar was smart enough to have his bags mailed," Beckett interjected. His human associate blinked again, unable to disagree.

"Oh. All right. Just follow me to the garage, then," Ms. Woeburne announced. "I didn't park far."

She led them through the corridor, down an escalator, past a cramped concession area and into the elevator, stride swift and on-target. The airport lights were glaring against a dark Californian sky and whitewashed plaster. Ms. Woeburne seemed unaffected by them – accustomed to the blast of pristineness, of sterility – but Dr. Johansen looked troubled. The man's arms shook in too-short coat sleeves. He was tired, disorientated, and dependent. He was quite along in his years. The two Kindred were aware of this and did not abuse it, but were not exactly accommodating. As the lift doors opened to a vehicle-packed lot, Serena flipped out her keys and led both guests forward. She showed no signs of slowing down, even as the Ventrue began speaking to the nervous old man.

"Actually, I'm staying at Empire Hotel, too, Doctor," Woeburne told him, glancing up at the number stamped on a nearby colonnade. Beckett was not amiss to the three black-garbed, dismal-looking vampires that stepped out of a service ramp seconds later; they'd been looming along after them since Woeburne bid hello. Bodyguards, most likely – trying to be inconspicuous and falling just short of success. They shot inhospitable expressions about, lingering by the doorway for another few moments before moving towards their similarly discreet automobiles. (The Gangrel felt his eyes roll, more red tonight than orange. If one truly sought to operate under the radar, sporting earpieces was generally a bad idea.)

"Suite 4B," LaCroix's officer continued. "If you ever need anything, please don't hesitate to knock on my door. I'm somewhat busy - particularly mornings - but I'll be glad to assist you if I can."

She brought them to a black Jaguar that smelled like fresh paint and aerosol. Serena fought with the handle for several tugs before managing to get it unhinged and open. "Sorry," she murmured, flattening down her umber hair. Every inch of the automobile looked as though it had just been waxed. "New ride."

Johansen scrambled into her backseat before anyone else could claim it, strapping down his belt as though expecting Ms. Woeburne might peel out of the garage. (Granted, he didn't _know_ Ms. Woeburne, and so didn't know horror was the sensible reaction to overworked Ventrue behind a wheel. She wasn't about to say anything, though.) Beckett sighed, swung himself into the passenger chair, and hooked his hat on one knee as the Seneschal prepared to depart. After the jangling of keys and a brief fight with a stubborn clutch, she started it up and pulled out onto LAX's thoroughfare. Dramatic blue bulbs and modernist arches swept by the sports car and disappeared behind them in a matter of minutes. The Ventrue's foot leaned heavily upon her gas pedal; speed changes pressed shoulders into upholstery or sent them lurching forward. Their glossy XFR was past a toll booth and zooming onto I-10 before any further conversation took place.

"Have you," Serena began, keeping the trip light. Ingvar looked at her with a pale, deeply-creased face. He was a lost boy in a graying body. "Been to the West Coast before? Not that I've been living here very long myself. A good thing you were able to visit in autumn, though; the city can be lovely this time of year. LA is awful in the summer. Very hot. It's a sticky heat, is what it is. But this weather must stifle you, anyway, Beckett – coming from Chicago. Would anyone like me to crack a window?"

"Are we being followed?" Dr. Johansen was wide-eyed, tossing apprehensive glimpses behind their vehicle. The lines around his loosening jowls tightened. Two intimidating cars of the government flavor were tailing Ms. Woeburne, stripped of color and switching off their high-beams. They matched acceleration and lane shifts like an army convoy. Beckett was surprised the human had noticed them (nearsightedness and all), deciding he'd underestimated Ingvar's powers of perception.

"Don't mind them," the Seneschal assured him, flashing that awkward grin. "Just security. My Si-" She visibly remembered the Gangrel's lie, biting her tongue. "My fath-" This one was even harder for her to say. "Mr. LaCroix takes his clients' safety very seriously," Serena finally settled, fingers strangling the steering wheel. She didn't comment further. She drove on in silence for a while.

Beckett settled against the charcoal upholstery, tilting his neck back. It had been an uncomfortable flight towards a working destination swarming with corporate clones… nevertheless, he looked forward to studying the Ankaran Sarcophagus. No doubt his findings would disappoint the reigning _mogul du jour_, but such was a sad fact of life: legends always sounded better in books then they did in cold, unromantic reality. Hopefully Johansen's archives could speed the process along somewhat. The archeologist knew his comrade would be their only hope of salvaging useful reports from Clan Giovanni's campsite… and Ingvar, mumbling intellectual, hadn't failed him. He'd gotten wicked awful bronchitis and choked up blood for half the expedition, but still accomplished what the man had been needed for. It would've been interesting to tag along. Alas, strange murmurings from Chicago's thin-blood community – well, that plus affection for old friends – kept him in the Midwest longer than was fashionable for dig sites. And Beckett's friends always had the most curious things to say.

Now he was shuttling off to Los Angeles – into the explosive remains of a staggering Free-State, and at the beck of these fork-tongued Ventrue who hoped to turn precious artifacts into political bargaining chips. What would they get at the tail end of this well-funded endeavor? Bodily dust and a few bleached bones. It was funny, really. A familiar lesson in the grand course of his career, but one that often made Beckett smile.

The Gangrel pushed his hat brim over his eyes and cast a bored glance at their chauffeur. Blacktop rumbled smoothly under the Jaguar. Miles away, those engine-fire arches of the Vincent Thomas Bridge cut through skyline. Dr. Johansen – poor, clueless Dr. Johansen – was slouching in back, gnarled hands folded powerlessly over his potbelly and a worried, mortal glisten coating the whites of both eyes. Ms. Woeburne drove forcefully; her jaw was set, razorlike, and tense as new bedsprings. Her pupils flickered towards the rearview mirror, acutely aware of surrounding traffic. Ventrue were aggressive creatures, no matter how insistent and optimistic their attempts at small talk seemed. Beckett already heard that the locals had been gunning for their Seneschal these past few nights. He suspected her biggest flaw in sidestepping them was too much trust for a ruthless Prince.

Posturing, shell games, calculated sacrifices; these were the reasons not to play Jyhad. This forgotten piece wondered idly if the pawn beside him would survive her current match – and, if not, who would drive him back to Los Angeles International. (There were plenty of candidates ready to schlep infamous Kindred about, to be sure. But the conversation could easily be better or worse, and he was fairly sure the car wouldn't be as fun.)

Serena caught him considering her and whipped out that too-chipper, too-friendly smile. His response was flimsy, more wince than teeth – but it was the best Beckett could do under the circumstances, and she didn't expect much more.

They pressed on uneventfully for another congested half-hour, finally arriving outside a bullyish brick brute labeled EMPIRE ARMS HOTEL. The letters were neon, glaring, overjuiced electricity. The explorer snuffed at them, and at the flagrant inaccuracy of classical columns, before wishing goodnight to his associate and watching Woeburne run Ingvar inside. They whisked through that gaudy marble entrance lobby and disappeared into an elevator. He followed the Ventrue like a cataracted sheep, uncertain but fumbling forward; it was much as he had done since they left O'Hare, and frankly, enough to make a vampire of reasonable humanity itch of guilt. Johansen instinctually felt something was dreadfully, inexplicably wrong about Beckett… about them all. And yet the man's reliance upon logic would not permit him theorize. He refused to accept this bizarre, sly-tongued scholar as anything more than a colleague. Disconcerting, slinking, even creepy – an exceptional, irregular colleague, to be sure – but hardly supernatural or nefarious.

And that was the lucky thing about kine. Like cattle, the dumb ones were too thick to notice predators slinking amongst them, and the smart ones too convinced by their science to believe.

Brisk, carbonated Serena probably didn't feel as _wrong_ to aging sensibilities; she was still fresh enough to project normalcy, even if it was normal vinegar, astringent friendship. Not as intriguing as Beckett, perhaps – obviously not as brilliant – but less frightening somehow. He supposed that ordinary authority at least encouraged Ingvar's willingness to obey her directions. _Don't worry; don't strain yourself; everything is already planned _- this was the way Ventrue socialized, the way a clan of self-christened aristocrats had won the world for themselves. They were so assured in what they told you would happen. They were the givers of strategy, the coordinators, the organizers of what life you'd live. He had loathed that arrogance in his youth. But he suspected most neonates, and most young people, did.

It was convenient enough to have them dwelling so close to one another. The Seneschal's proximity ensured Johansen's protection, so long as she remained in her Sire's good graces. Furthermore, her involvement served as one more alibi to put the doctor at ease. It wouldn't do to have him making inquiries unrelated to their sarcophagus project. His conviction in empiricism was not questionable, but even the hardest skeptic can only turn a cheek for so long. Ms. Woeburne's ungainly manners could be quite convincing despite the intensive personality. She'd keep Ingvar's guard lowered; of that he had little reason to doubt.

A shrill chime disturbed his train of thought. Serena's cellular phone was sitting in a cup holder, vibrating, screen winking on. It rang thrice. Five minutes later, and still no sign of its owner trotting down the sidewalk.

Beckett tapped his foot, folded his sunglasses into a brown coat pocket, and decided that – so long as LaCroix's Childe was otherwise engaged – he might as well do a little snooping.

Checking for over-interested guards (finding none), the Gangrel flipped her telephone awake and thumbed through a contacts list – some of which he recognized, many others he did not. There were no stored text messages to speak of. Ms. Woeburne obviously wiped her databanks often, a predictable but slightly disappointing discovery. Still, all was not completely lost; there was that single recording just waiting to be spied upon. He shut her map tracking down and made a decisive move for it. It was an unlisted number that didn't register on the Seneschal's caller I.D.

It began with a short beep:

"_That's great, Woeburne. Real nice. You bring a shitstorm to my door, and now you can't even pick up your fucking phone to talk to me? You know what – fine. I don't care.  
_

"_Look. I don't know what the hell happened the other night. I don't know what happened to you, either – where are you? Shit. I'm not even going to get into that. What I do need you to know is that I had nothing to do with it. You don't like me, London, but if you have an ounce of integrity, you'll vouch for me._

"_You wanted to know what someone like you should say to someone like me. That's it. Tell me you aren't going to cry wolf on us when you know I had no part in that mess. That is all I want from you at this point and if you've been worth it, you'll come through._

"_The Sabbat are going to kill you, Woeburne. Nobody else particular wants that to happen - not me. But if LaCroix can pin us for a dead Seneschal, he will, and he won't stop them because of you. You're smart and you know that. _

_"I can still help. But if you want anything else from me, you have to put me in a position to help. Whether you can manage that or not is on you._

_"Best I can do for you, London. You aren't dead yet, let me know. Or not."_

The recording ended, and Beckett switched off her cellular.

Could _that_ be who he _thought_ it was?

'_Telling,'_ the researcher noted, brows arching upwards on a dark face, eyes darting quickly for sudden concern he'd be caught knowing more than one city outsider ought. Telling, telling, _telling_. And who would have ventured to guess it? The Prince's own protégé had apparently been sinking bets on somebody else's table, casting lines and testing potential escape routes – just in case a wintry Sire's affections did not include timely rescues, it seemed? It was an awfully audacious pick of a somebody else. So _that_ was why she had been so persnickety about the news of a coup against their local Free-State, eh? Double-dealing the local Brujah hetman was certainly much cleverer than he'd wanted to give Woeburne credit for, and far more gutsy than ancilla shoe-shiners dared to be.

You could have called Beckett impressed. Not earthshakingly impressed – but impressed, nonetheless.

Now remained the prickly question: to tell Sebastian his latest sugarplum soldier was walking the wobbly Jyhad fence, or preserve her lie and watch this cat's cradle crumple into a knot? As if that even qualified as legitimate debate. The Gangrel was an observer, not a squealing informant. There was no surefire way of determining how much LaCroix already knew about this unseemly accord, anyway, and so the point was twice useless. Kicking up one's heels and surveying from the box seats was so much more entertaining. Ventrue were perpetual schemers, cutthroat operatives and diehard loyalists until they _weren't. _Besides, he'd no loyalty to Camarilla Los Angeles; better to see where Ms. Woeburne ended up once this operative's running shoes outstretched the track. Hah - teach him for typecasting. Wasn't that a perfect little plot twist? The Prince's own majordomo had been, however ambivalently, casting her chips into government games.

And – even more telling – what stray dog roved nearby to mark her eventual stumble but Baron "Not-A-Baron" Rodriguez, the grimly self-styled _last of the last of the last_ what-ever? Woeburne may have been a conservative player, but she was made treacherous by youth and birth, that same clan arrogance that made Ventrue think they had a right to delegate. He'd encountered a hundred girls like her in these long centuries tracing down curios for obsessive monarchs. Back her against a conspiracy wall – pin her beneath death threats from those she trusts – and that spiny cactus would eventually drop its needles and pop like an overripe grape. Crafty Anarchs… a phrase Beckett didn't find himself thinking very often.

He couldn't be bothered with politics, but occasionally they were a spectacular show.

By the time Serena locked Ingvar snugly to bed, the Gangrel's mood had much improved. She returned to find him with loosely folded arms and a catlike smile.

"I'm sorry that took me so long." The apology was blissfully unaware of what its recipient gleaned. She plopped upon the driver's seat and clicked her safety belt, reaching for the stick. "There was some keycard confusion or whatnot. The night staff is completely inadequate. All's squared away now, though," Woeburne sighed and bristled. "At any rate. Shall we press on to Venture Tower? The Prince has swept out an entire floor to dedicate to your investigation. You'll probably need a lab of some sort..."

"Samples would be useless to me without one," the Gangrel agreed. For all their organization and pomp, Ventrue did like to make simple assumptions very difficult.

"That's no problem. Just compile a list and forward it to me; Mr. LaCroix has given blanket authority to approve all the equipment, tech or manpower you require. I understand he has also cleared one of his finest residential rooms for you. We thought it would be best if you had immediate access to the sarcophagus around-the-clock. And you'll be provided with all the necessary keys."

"Will I? How exciting." Sarcasm flattened Beckett's voice, but of a complacent variety. Sebastian was lucky his Ankaran relic proved enigmatic enough to merit the Gangrel's attention. Else, this prospect of operating so closely beneath Camarilla tycoons and their skittering sycophants would have successfully turned his stomach. Fates pity the Kindred who mistook their species' most famous historian for another collared pet. "Let's proceed to the tower, then. No sense in avoiding the inevitable, and I suspect your Sire's getting antsy."

She chuckled through her nose. "You suspect correctly."

Before they drove on, the Ventrue reached into her dashboard and removed a manila envelope. It wasn't nearly as hefty as the last document she'd given him.

"I'd like you to take this," Ms. Woeburne said, handing over the file. "It probably isn't news, considering Dr. Johansen, but the Giovannis sent us more images. I've also included a primer on city zoning I think you might find useful; where to go, where not to go, where territories intersect. And an index card with my contact information is floating around in there somewhere – just in case you need my assistance." (By "floating around," she meant stuck to the front page in bold font. Beckett didn't fancy raining on the girl's welcome party parade, but gauged the chances of needing a puppet Seneschal's assistance to be dismally low.)

He didn't bother rifling through the fact sheets, tucking them into his satchel between a paperback and an empty clipboard. "You are a walking help kiosk, young one."

"Yes, I do my best." She twisted on the ignition.

Fifteen minutes of post-rush hour streets, and they were parked in a four-tier lot across from the LaCroix Foundation building. It was truly a daunting fixture in this sprawl of city: onyx brick, backlit and intimidating; furious, fastidious windows that glared; soaring heights, topped with a lightning rod more like a spear. All in all, everything Beckett expected of some plutocrat's headquarters. He was underwhelmed. Perhaps the uptight corporal expected her guest would be. Serena had not pestered him at all during the short ride here, but he could tell she wanted to – silence, un-commitment, unnerved her. She fidgeted. She pressed out breaths. When the Jaguar's engines quieted, Prince LA's representative sat for a moment, gathering her thoughts, rehearsing them. Her eyes gazed blankly through the folded sun blocker and the woman's lips were pursed. She knew exactly what giant waited in the tippy-top of that great stalk. She made no speech without thinking it through.

"I suppose we should go in," the Seneschal finally said, dropping keys into a pocket and rummaging for her seatbelt release. "My Sire has been looking forward to meeting you. And I really am glad to see you again. I'm sorry if I seem, ah - disjointed. This is just a somewhat stressful time."

Beckett regarded her bluntly, his scrutiny cutting excuses off short.

"You're not the first Camarilla do-girl I've met, Ms. Woeburne," the Gangrel consoled. "And I seriously doubt you'll be the last. But I think you might be gratified to know you're the most surprising so far."

She looked befuddled, as though a perfect stranger had called her by name.

"Oh. Well. Thank you. I think," Serena added, cringing. She forked open her door. "If there's nothing else you need to do tonight, I'll walk you up to see the Prince now."

Beckett shouldered his bag and sighed.

"I'll try not to get you downsized," was all the professor would promise.


	59. Dust the Vendetta

**Dust the Vendetta **

Nines Rodriguez frowned at his hands. Finding nothing, he glanced up, turned pale eyes down a howling beach tunnel, and looked towards the steady rumble of Pacific Ocean.

The waves were dark as they lapped Santa Monica's shoreline, dragging sand down banks and sweeping it back underwater. This was a quiet, breezy night. Close to land, small whitecaps rushed around the pier's wooden legs; gaze a little farther off, and they disappeared into one solid sheet of ink. Though the place still smelled of sewers, charcoal, fish and salt, windless nights like this made all that H20 into a parking lot. It stretched out along the crumbling cliffs, sifting through chain link fence, sinking buoys. Miles off, yacht bows glowed in the moonlight from their harbor posts. Streetlamps hummed dimly around the cordoned-off Ferris Wheel overhead, spokes hobbled from bygone battles. He couldn't describe it, but there was a distinct, gutting air of disaster that hung along the LA coastline – packed with tourists during daylight hours, now desolate in the early AM. It felt like something ominous.

The Brujah lingered in an abandoned access passage just yards away from low tide. Nines shrugged his jacket higher upon tense shoulders, leather warding off November first. He pressed at the worn red bricks surrounding him. He breathed in old saline solution used to clean these arching walls. He stood there for a moment longer – uneasy for reasons he could not explain – before emerging from the channel, outdoor lights turning his back a sickly white, and stepping out onto the beach.

The plot was deserted. Whatever life still poked about this particular square of shore had cleared out hours before, leaving only a spent fire pit made of driftwood and gasoline stains. Plywood washed up in furniture shapes. Rodriguez cast a glace upwards – towards a run-down house set upon the surrounding bluff, one of very few light sources nearby – and tightened his mouth. There were shoeprints in the sand. There were gulls molting in the boardwalk's underbelly. The horizon line dipped into pitch saltwater and overpass shadows until everything melted together in a hair-raising, uniform black. Barnacles sutured to concrete blocks and looked like teeth; far beyond Santa Monica's closed pier, Nines could see a docked vessel that could've only been the skeleton of a certain _Elizabeth Dane_. He bristled. It was cold.

"Great fucking place for an ambush," the man said aloud. He was answered by the sudden dull bang of boot soles hitting a stairwell behind him.

"That's what I told ya,' boyo," rasped a gruff voice, and Rodriguez spun on a heel to face Smiling Jack.

The old Anarch terrorist was in his usual sorts – proudly stereotypical – ragged vest, biker regalia, scraggly mane and outrageous beard. He sauntered up to Nines with a yellow grin and unkempt eyebrows. The pervasive scent of gunpowder and chaos that followed this legend retained its full force even under siege; Jack walked not only with senior confidence, but without fear for his survival. _The Last Round_ spokesman didn't like paranoia charges. Still: show up in a major city one night, alone as far as Rodriguez could tell, unconcerned for the bloodsucking Camarilla headhunters who'd rejoice at plugging .45s into your skull? Nothing bothered Smiling Jack. He had no orbit. He was impervious to Red List assassins, Princes, marches and movements. Impervious to Barons, too. It was a sentiment this Elder would not let the local headman forget.

Nines considered himself a throw smarter than the average Brujah because he never forgot how fragile his existence truly was. He wore bulletproof upon occasion, brought backup, and removed himself from the frontlines when heat got too hot. But Jack? Hell if he'd shied from any Princes in the past couple centuries. Hell if he'd withdraw – for _any_ reason – politically sound ones, cowardice or long-sighted wisdom. When he'd strolled into Los Angeles last year, their besieged Free-State nearly bucked its saddle from the resultant morale high. The man was fucking rock star, dropping enormous explosions and bloody coup d'états whenever he felt like it. He was comfortable in his own predatory skin.

In sum: Jack walked the dangerous act of a Jyhadist who really did exist above it all. His story was a rumored one, toting history and challenges, some of which had been left vaguer than others. But that didn't mean he was above bringing "It All" burning down.

Charismatic Nines Rodriguez was progressively looking more and more like a working part of It All to Jack – and LA's Anarch chief sensed this like a bushman senses a lion crawling through the grass. He can do nothing to stop it. He can only hope to placate the creature, or outmaneuver the eventual pounce.

Jack grinned at the younger Brujah's skittishness, amused by wide blue eyes and a reflexive reach for a pistol. "Keep it in your pants, Rodriguez. I ain't gonna' shoot you," the coyote said, his promise weakened by that tommygun laugh.

Nines was trying to save face. He crossed both arms, a stern look, chin tucked towards chest. But he said nothing about the insults or the threats they implied. And no matter how fierce the glower, how firm the stance, how fast these past years' leadership claims stuck, note this: defensiveness stirred in a growling beast who hid his throat. "I'm glad you showed up – considering _you're_ the one who wanted to talk to _me_. What've you got on the Sabbat? Something I don't know, I hope. Because I don't like this standing. Not when I got shit that needs doing. Not when I ought to be checking the outposts we've already laid down, instead've hauling my ass out here to pitch a bonfire."

"I don't want to crush this boss vibe you've got going on, sonny, but I've gotta' let you in on two big points here. Your plans don't impress me, and I can't imagine you really think I give a rat's ass about your precious time." Jack pulled a single cigarette out of his denim pocket, lighting it behind a cupped hand. Smoke wafted out in diesel muffler puffs. It loomed overhead – unnervingly, unnaturally slow to disappear. "But yeah, since you brought it up, I got some intel for you. Ran through this sack-of-shit burb in a couple hours, and let me shed some light: forget Compton. Santa Monica is crawling with those fuckers. The local turncoat bitch and her nutjob sister are apparently too busy clawing at one another to notice or care, let alone handle it. Shovelheads breeding like fucking rabbits out by the old warehouse. _Tch_. Voermans; what can I say?" Another breath of tar; the Anarch smiled eerily around his bite. Menacing, dingy canines were stark against the white rolling paper. "Nice rack on crazy legs, though. Here's my professional recommendation: I'd get crackin' and tap that before Therese blows her brains out all over a dance floor."

"What the fuck did you call me out here for?" Rodriguez didn't flinch. A rat skittered down the run-off pipes behind him, squeezing fat ribs through sewer grating.

"Settle down, kid," the older vampire told him, cackling at his comrade's obvious nerves. Downtown's poster Anarch was a concentrated tangle of tensions and grim orders these nights. Like most of their clan, he compensated for anxiety with demands, strength demonstrations and gritted jowls… but Nines wasn't about to bear his fangs at Smiling Jack. "I'll spell this out for you so there's no misunderstanding. You're never going to control the Hallowbrook pack on your home court if you can't weed 'em out of these boonies. Landing in Compton few months back was a solid move for a couple reasons, and not just the Sabbat-related ones. Sure you've figured that out. But Santa Monica needs to fall into line before the dogs'll come to heel city-wide. Capish? They've been making a hell of a sport outta' all the poor thin-blooded bastards slumming around these parts – leaving a great big fucking mess, too – and frankly it's gettin' to pissing me off." The weathered Brujah kicked up sand with his hard toe. He took another drag and blew a smile full of smoke at Rodriguez. "Good spot, don't you think?"

Nines deflated his lungs and scented the air. "It's dark. What do you want to do about it? You thinking we should lay a stakeout?"

Jack winked. "Now you're using your head. Bunch of whelp Caitiff use this beach as a hunting ground, so I hear – gather 'round, sing Kumbaya, jump drunk sightseers and cry about being vampires. Sabbat catch a whiff of fresh meat like that? Seems like an opportunity to me. But you're the boss around this piss-hole, boyo. Far as your groupies are concerned, I'm just part of the goddamn scenery."

The proposition processed through thin silver eyes. He contemplated it for a moment, tongue running along his top teeth, before landing on a sobering answer. "Then we'll bait them out," Rodriguez decided, little leeway for arguing fine points, convinced quickly of this scheme's success. It was a viable plan, and they needed to take decisive action. There wasn't enough luxury time to debate the details of morality since Sebastian LaCroix flew into town. "Mutts can't fucking resist. That works to our advantage. We ought to watch for a few to gather out here – some clanless nobody'll miss – and drop a line to Hallowbrook. Dig a couple of our men deep, wait for the shovelheads to come running for food and box them all in. The pier's still closed; it'll work for a hiding spot. Take enough gunners down and that might slow the bastards. If nothing else, wiping a bunch of pups out'll give their slave masters something to think about. And it makes a statement: I do not bunk the Black Hand in Los Angeles."

"_You_?" Smiling Jack grinned with arched brows. Nines held his ground, but the misspeak was telling, and the spokesman inwardly flinched. _We_.

Jack took three steps closer to Rodriguez, jerking a thumb towards the dilapidated picket-fence bungalow sitting far above them. Moss dripped from its vista and large flakes of paint had been wiped off by rain. There were shingles missing, roofs battered by water storms, and a broken window gaped on the façade. "See that depressing dive up there, right on the overhang? It's a drug lab. Full of fuckin' crackheads and their doped-up whores. I'm gonna' tell you what. Seeing as how I'm feeling generous tonight and I got nothing else to do, I'll go knock on the door. Sad little shack of shit that it is, it'll work for a vantage point. We'll be able to see Sabbat coming a long way off; they won't be able to get a bead on us, catch our kids with their pants around their fucking ankles. Should be a fine place to pick up some weapons, too. Maybe rig some mines. Last time I checked, shovelheads still went up like Roman fucking candles." He flicked ash off the burning butt, wedged it back between his cuspids and funneled smoke through both nostrils. Nines was considering the game plan; his posture was fixed, stare narrow, fingers balled in coat pockets. "I'd stick that Bernardino asshole up there with some ghoul trigger-pullers. He can handle a rifle."

This advice was straight, but a sock to the stomach; few evenings ago, sniper posts would've automatically gone to Playboy. Poor kid – smug as shit – never saw his own death coming. No use to dragging your feet through it, though. He shoved any dwindling memories of Kent-Alan's lopsided smirks and surefire aim away. "That'll do. That's good. Damsel's got a few hopefuls waiting in the wings – you remember that Malk? Chino?" the Brujah asked, not expecting Jack would. If his scoff was any indication, Rodriguez's guess wasn't wrong. "Washed up the other week. Hungry and covered in burn marks, but the fledge was carrying more firepower than a goddamn tank so I didn't ask questions. Paranoid schizophrenic… not usually real violent, except when it comes to government agencies. I put the idea in his head that the Cam and the Thought Police are one in the same. Hell of a brawler," Nines added. "He'd be useful under the pier. I'll prep him and place what ghouls we can scrape together on sea-level for extra firepower."

"Sounds like a barrel of goddamn laughs." Jack gathered up a ball of spit and hawked it into the crater he'd dug with his sole. This action irritated Rodriguez beyond all logic and he had to swallow a halfcocked urge to shout for attention.

"Also. I want you to call Christie," Nines snapped, upper lip curling. He flattened it before the expression could warp into a snarl. "Get her back here. Deacon, too, if she's willing to bring him. We've got bodies, but we need more experience in the trenches, and I'm thinking long-view."

"Uh. Nuh-uh, sonny." The senior Brujah shot this request down with a nonchalant cluck of his tongue. "No can do."

He could tell Rodriguez wasn't about to give up so swiftly, though – not without needling another few inches. "She'd be a hell of an asset," the Anarch pushed, introducing his wishes in compliment frames. Jack could've been offended by that negotiator's tone, but decided it wasn't worth barking over and tossed back a curt 'no.'

"Yeah," the rejection began, more of a snerk than a real dispute. "I'm sure. 'Cept she's doing a job for me in San Fran that's more important than your little shootout."

"Then she can show up after it's done. _We_ –" A tense correction. "–need forces, not imports. And I'll get soldiers down here myself if I have to. I ask out of respect."

The warning struck air like a slipped free weight. Nines's look was severe, lineless, and completely staid. Jack laughed in his face – right in the sinking Free-State's steel blue eyes. "You make that call, bucko, and I'll tell Christie you're ringing home to drain her dry. Yeah, she told me about that," he chuffed at the captain's sudden blankness. "Leopold dealt you some phosphorus knocks on this here pier and so _Revolución The Kid_ ends up suckin' on newbie neck. Ain't this inheritance thing a bitch? Heh! Heh-heh! 'Out of respect' my dead grey ass. Ah… you're too much, Boy Wonder," he sighed, whistling. The amused Brujah swiped his forehead with a hairy arm. "Want to play these games? You better stick to dancing around LaCroix's bitch. She's more in your league."

The insult – and the patronizing reference to dealings with Seneschal LA, a gambit he thought would pay – simmered Nines's already foul temper. But he swallowed it down. The withheld anger began to take a physical toll, back teeth clenching, arms sore, shoulders stiff. "I don't think you're hearing me," was all he got to say.

"What're you gonna' do? _Pull rank_? Kick me out of your little _club_?" Jack asked, barely able to finish before the humor overtook him. There was no attempt to rein it in. "Heh-heh-heh! Oh, man – that's classic! You forget who you're jawing at? Please."

Rodriguez tensed. He was breathing stiffly, oxygen rising and falling beneath the Anarch's collarbone. He was angry; he was biting his tongue. "No one – least of all anyone who's met me face-to-face, knows how I operate – is going to buy into that load of fucking-"

"Who's she gonna' believe, kiddo? You or me? Man like you is an opportunist. Christie may be out on her goddamn training wheels, but any Childer of mine still's got a generation on you. And don't think she doesn't know it."

Nines looked hard at Jack. He was unmoving, spine to the cement exit, facing an uncaring vampire and a glass sheet of ocean. The man clenched his fingers into inadvertent fists. Wind rippled lightly through the long-sleeved jacket and raised fine hair on the back of Rodriguez's neck.

"Are we gonna' have a problem?" he asked, voice low, fitting his mouth carefully around every word. "Because this shit from you is the LAST thing I need."

Jack looked back at him.

True to his name, Jack was still smiling.

"C'mere. Lemme' tell you something, boyo," the Elder said, beckoning Nines forward with a turn of one massive, heavily-scarred hand. His young contemporary stepped forward like an impatient, resentful police dog. They were within strike distance. Laying a blow would've been no more difficult than swinging claws outward, ripping through stitches and flesh.

"I don't like your style, Rodriguez," Jack casually informed him, trapping the exhaling chief in both corners of his wild-dog eyes. He spoke calmly – with a laidback, leisurely distaste that thickened the space between them and scared Nines to the core. Baron Los Angeles did not cringe. He did not curl his tail and back away. But Christ if he didn't want to. There was a Kindred celebrity pinning him with sidelong, unfriendly distrust; though the vampire's intensity was masked by informal manners, it made him no less dangerous. "I don't like seeing punk-ass Brujah strut around like God's gift to the Free-State, kissin' Toreador ass backstage for a guaranteed slice of authority. Now, I'm helping you out on this one because I like seeing a point go to those Sabbat animals even less – and because I'm pretty sure, these past few nights to the contrary, you've got an idea what you're doing. But you and me?"

Jack moved forward. His catcher's mitt of a hand fell on Rodriguez's left shoulder, clasping down; his well-worn teeth glinted fiercely. You could smell tobacco, power and rot. Moonlight underscored the fear in gunmetal eyes its owner didn't want to show.

"I ain't one of your mooks, Nines. We ain't blood brothers. And I don't take orders from you."

The threatened Brujah stared at him with stony, frightened reserve.

"Comprende?" Jack asked, thumped him in the back, and laughed his way down Santa Monica's darkening beach.


	60. Contract Termination

**Contract Termination**

On November second – roundabout two AM – the doorbell rang, and Ms. Woeburne answered it.

Eugene Walker was standing outside in the foyer, hands in his pockets, sunken eyes doubting she would ever appear.

Serena had not been expecting this. Calling her startled would be a miscalculation, for thin-bloods did not (usually) register on the list of potential threats, but there was a stalled moment in which neither creature knew how to react. The Caitiff looked in at her with surprise – a delayed reaction, a quarry found. She did not ask how he came to her. That some wayward neonate had been checking Empire Hotel's front lobby weekly for the name _Woeburne_ would not have stirred pity, anyway. It did not prod guilt. It probably would have armed this Ventrue's hawkish suspicions, poking at old mistakes… mistakes a new officer did not want to remember, failures clinging on, scuffmarks dulling her badge.

"You're here," E. said, as though he could not help it. His complexion was abnormally whitish from rust of his roots to the veins in his throat. "The front desk said you were, but I wasn't half hoping. They wouldn't tell me when you'd be back. I wasn't…"

His hesitation was tantamount to the coldness that immediately seized Serena's face; impatience was in every way her chin jutted, back straightening, and in how that reticle stare sheened poisonous and dead. Cool, damp brunette was pulled tight and uncompromising behind listening ears. Once E. had met Ms. Woeburne; he had not memorized these aggressive stances, the unkind lines in a face that was truthfully not very hard or the way she wore her hair. They had not really gauged Lily's staid employer to be a threat – not comparatively. But he could recall the unspoken computations running behind every look she gave. There was an intensity of forethought there that raced, with varying degrees of accuracy, to predict your next move; it made her nervous, silently hostile, a little shifty. Motions were brisk and sharp. Suit buttons laid flat. The blank corners of her eyes matched old statues, whites chipped from rhinoceros tusks. She was a difficult woman to feel at ease around.

Serena did not say anything. She stood there unsmiling – Ventrue scrutiny overpowering her confusion – one palm pressed to the threshold, the other clenching its metal doorknob. Her posture was rigid and authoritative. She waited for him to speak.

"Sorry if I'm bothering you," E. choked, realizing the inconvenience of his presence in that harsh look. He pedaled forward all the same. Nervous hands found their way deeper into his cargo pockets; fingers clenched around thumbs; brackish green, a tone much darker and hazier than hers, flickered from doorframe to the spotless elevator he'd just left behind. They had ended on an abrupt note with no reason for closure, these two individuals – attached by a common link that had rusted and snapped. He could understand if she didn't remember him, but all the same, tonight was something that had to be done. There was no missing this chance. "You're busy, I know. I've been waiting months to talk to you. I tried to catch you at Venture Tower but when I went, they said you left LA. No one would give me your number. I didn't know if…"

She wasn't speaking. The crosshairs in those cunning eyes were fierce and unreadable.

"Can I come inside?" E. asked, more than a little desperately. He was terribly anxious. There were no butterflies, but angry moths beating against his insides – flitting incongruities that would not be crushed, swallowed, and digested down. They leaked a bad taste upon his tongue. They antagonized.

Serena Woeburne looked him over head-to-toe, blinked unhappily, and opened her small thistle mouth. "I'd prefer if you didn't. Follow me."

She stepped outside, shutting the door quietly behind her – its turning lock was loud in all this silence – and lead him away. He followed, because what else was there to do?

The Ventrue's back moved swiftly ahead of him down this unpopulated corridor – black jacket, tiny 'c'-curl of ponytail at the base of an upright neck, straight and confident hips. It was hard keeping up with her. Their staggered attempt at dialogue might have caught unwanted attention had anyone been loitering up here to see it. Fortunately, Empire Hotel – with its muscular brick edifice and cosmopolitan demeanor – entertained most late-evening clientele in downstairs lounges. E. smelled pungent nightcaps and cigar smoke the moment he'd stepped inside. This place was all polished red clay, lace curtains and warm yellow marble. Doormen were menacing and bellhops contemptuously polite. It made vestigial sweat glands wake suddenly beneath his polo collar, the best clothing he'd managed, bleeding teal dye into humid turquoise. He could hear faint guitar thrum through floors far below, a rich alto in a performance room; pool balls clacked; glasses chinked. Everything had been muted through layers of bear-brown carpet that ate his footprints up. It was difficult imagining Lily wandering through this moneyed, standoffish place every week – the sort of venue where mafia tycoons chinked with bygone actors, estate inheritors and conservative politicians. It glistened like crime lords, diplomats' mistresses and expensive booze.

The hallway they moved down was powerfully air conditioned and chillingly quiet in its luxury, fitting for a woman like this. They passed no one. Dim light scones and walnut paneling negated cream wallpaper. Then Ms. Woeburne stopped suddenly and pushed into a public bathroom – _ladies_, he noted with a bite of discomfort – heels like gunshots the moment they stepped off the taupish rug. Even the damn can was pretentious, all mosaic and makeup lights. The moment he entered, Serena swiftly strode around him and secured the heavy wooden door. She peeked in every immaculate stall. She leant a tall lamp across the entrance as a blockade bar, uncaring if the angle broke its thin white lip.

"I am about to leave for a meeting," the vampire told him, tone as stiff and precise as her walk. There was a real second of fear when she turned to face him, of fine hairs standing high. They last time they'd spoken, she'd been in his modest apartment with swollen eyes, a broken nose and cracked fingers; she'd been wearing Lily's ratty pajamas, excess fabric pooling at her ankles, sitting on their slumping couch; she'd been disturbed and fidgety. He'd felt wary of the Ventrue then on principle, but now sensed concrete behind those precautions. In her element, Ms. Woeburne was neither harmless nor scattered. Both underlids were sallow and bruised, the pistachio skin of her irises ringed around empty points; it looked like she had just dressed after a shower. There was nothing familiar or friendly about them. So hard to imagine Lil here, around this woman, in her employ, in her home… "So I'll ask you to be brief. What business do you have with me?"

"Something's going on with Lily." He blurted it out – because Serena Woeburne was an impatient person, because it was nerve-wracking being sealed in porcelain with someone his Sire had wronged, and because this confession was too painful to say slowly. "After I called you that night… she never came home. I can't find her. All the places I thought she might be – she wasn't – and I hoped maybe you had an idea."

He might've jabbered on, something both E. and Lily tended to do when knocked below a spotlight, were it not for the bristle that swept over his inhospitable host. "_The Last Round_," she shot simply, eyes rolling, irritated. The Ventrue would not bother with details or cautionary postscripts. Caitiff were unlikely to comprehend them anyway. "It's a dive downtown; Kindred-owned, fronts as a pub. I can give you the address. Then you are on your own."

Woeburne ripped notepaper from a napkin receptacle. The tearing noise was brutal; he intervened. "I've been there, but they won't give me the time of day. So I came here," E. explained. It was all he had. "Listen; I'm not accusing you, but I'm counting on you helping me. When we talked on the phone…" The story took on a fraught, lost edge. Serena's face cooled remarkably from annoyed to displeased with its retelling; she crunched the unused tissue in one hand. "I know she was here right before she disappeared…"

"Do you?" It was a challenge – a legitimate, but unkind question. Ms. Woeburne threw her scrap of paper away. This simple motion looked ruthless where mirrors captured rigid, domineering shoulder blades beneath inexpressive fabric and bleak bulbs. His body language was weak and sloppy in comparison, cheekbones set wide and easy-to-read. The garbage flap squeaked in this empty, lemoned, fresh tile room. "Let me be clear with you," she continued, precise and frosty enunciation. "Your Sire caused a great deal of trouble for me. As a consequence, I am not very interested in her affairs beyond keeping them out of mine. I will tell you that she left this complex alive – traitorously, but alive – and that is the last I heard of her. I have no desire to hear more."

"But you have to at least…"

Her impatience was growing. She wouldn't be bothered; his stomach began sinking, mood tightening, hopelessness surging its way forward towards the thin-blood's heart. He felt dismissed, disregarded. It must have been part of how Lily saw this world. E. had always feared Kindred more; paranoias and deadly confrontations on packed-sand beaches had persuaded him to never associate with them unless absolutely necessary. Childe proved wiser than Sire in that regard, but if this was half her life – half her experience – perhaps he could have tried harder to understand. Perhaps he could have convinced her, had an argument, sympathized instead of making declarations laced with limited views and jealousy…

"I've told you what I can," Serena repeated thinly. "And I would advise you to stay away from Lily Harris. She has lost what protection my organization can offer, and I will not vouch for her again."

That said, Ms. Woeburne removed their improvised barricade, setting the lamp upright. E. coughed on the catch in his throat. He had to stop her.

"Look, please." Footfalls trailed after her, though the closer proximity made his danger senses prickle. Every sole impact echoed. The dismayed stare and slack mouth beneath a mane of messy orange gold seemed tan in comparison to her. He got as near to that back as he dared. "The Anarchs won't tell me anything. I'm still not sure what happened with them – how they got their hooks into her – but I can't just leave it lie. I know you have bigger things to worry about. I know what it must look like to you; before all this mess, you never did wrong by us. But I've about run out of options and I think Lily's out of time."

It was startling when she about-faced, curt and compact, to regard him fully. He retreated several steps. "You don't understand a fraction of what is involved here," the Ventrue scathed, lips tapering precariously, well-kept canines very tidy and very sharp. Mutated, dusty British twitched over consonants, shortened economical vowels. The accent was dulled but audible. It indicated mood shifts beyond the intensive, deadpan exterior. He felt overly large and inaccurate shut in these barren, unsoiled walls with her – a badly put-together bit of woodshop next to laser machinery. "So I will try to be as direct as possible. This isn't a matter of information. It is about where your Sire decided to place her loyalties. And it may be that those decisions have already panned out. In which case, there is nothing you can do; I am no friend to the banner she as marked herself with, and as you've already discovered, they aren't likely to assist. She knew this and acted willingly. My commitments, as I see it, are ended," Ms. Woeburne told him crisply. "I can't do anything more."

It was not voluntary action. "You work for one of the richest men in the goddamn country!" E. shouted, frustration blocking unused sinuses, fisting inside his throat. He knew so little; he had only what Lily had told him of unplanned visits and appointments forced, a lofty title in Venture Tower, and a pale progenitor more civilly ferocious than this one. "I may not have heard names or numbers or politics, but I know that if you wanted to find someone—"

"Lower your voice," she instructed. The simple command gutted him. Eugene Walker stood feebly; his ear tips reddened then blanched as much as they still could.

He could not yell at her. He could not rationalize with her. He could beg, and that was all. "You don't have to help us. I know that," E. lamented, fishing for mercy that was not there. She looked at him vacantly in front of that heavy plaqued door; the skirted silhouette emblazoned there was a sad irony. Her palm was already flat upon the swing-hinge. "But all the same, we need help. She said you could be trusted once, so I'm coming to you. I'm afraid something terrible could've happened to her. She could be held against her will, for all I know. She could be out of California entirely. She could be—" Words ashed in his mouth. He was unable form the image or the plea.

Lily had been mislead when it came to most matters Jyhad, once by an employer's neglect and then by a friendly face. And she paid dearly for her fledgling gullibility. But for all those stumblings, all the missed connections and unfilled ideologies, there were a precious few things about which his Sire had been too terribly right. Monsters could not be governed with trivialities as simple as contracts and law. Wherever you choose to stand in this dark game, whichever color pawn you paint yourself, recognize this: though rebel passions are fueled by sinister drives, Camarilla friendship means little.

Ms. Woeburne, a creature of tact and timetables, took pause. She thought about it for a moment.

"I don't care," the Ventrue announced, neatly and fluently as her pressed grey lapels, and that was the end of their business. "I have told you how I see it, and I have said my piece. More help than that, I can't give you. Goodnight."

She left E. in the hotel washroom with nothing but late empathy and a dead end.


	61. Old Scarface

**Old Scarface**

The girl dusted wet sand from her bellbottoms, hopped one treacherous-looking sewer grate, and stepped cautiously out onto a tiny plot of Santa Monica beach.

"L-Lil!" It was Jules who saw her first. The thin-blood's mouth dropped open, filling with cool November air. He leapt from the circle of cargo crates and washed-up miscellany they sat upon, green eyes blinking rapidly, bounding over to loop her in a startled hug. "Wuh-where have you been? You just disappeared! We were st-starting to think the Sabbath got you!" the young man managed to shout, amazed, and she could see a piercing in his lower lip glisten spit. Lily wrapped both arms tightly around him and pushed her nose into Julius's shoulder. He smelled like an old cotton t-shirt and mohawk gel.

Before she could respond, two dark-headed Kindred were upright and across their lot. Copper, awkward and overexcited, nudged his spluttered comrade out of the way to pump her hand. Rosa's mournful brown stare was squinting in an expression that shifted between incredulous and unsurprised. Their wonder only lasted for a precious few moments, however. After four or five minutes of happy reunion, the former began ushering her over to the lowly simmering bonfire while the latter had taken an unusual interest in brushing any lingering granules off Lily's back. She took it as a Malkavian "welcome back" and decided not to mind. The wayward Caitiff was so glad to see this small cluster of friends again that tear ducts tugged on her bottom eyelids, and a there was a distinct sensation of fizz running up her nose. She wrinkled it fiercely so as not to cry. Julius was still hanging onto one of her hoodie sleeves, fingers sunk into blue fabric tight enough so that she could see the dirt beneath his nails. Lily felt like hugging him again but instead sat down on a plywood cable roll. Sand had already worked its way into her socks and was itching between all ten toes.

"God, I am so glad to see you guys," the fledgling heaved, a weighty admission that whooshed from her lungs with an aftertaste like cinnamon. There was no better way to say it. She sunk forward in the makeshift chair, elbows hanging off her kneecaps. Orange tufts were sticking to the girl's brow.

"Oh, man – what happened to you?" Copper asked, plopping himself down on the pit's edge. He sat only a wink before springing up again, overworn jeans crunching down their little corner of coast. Grimy digits wiped themselves moderately clean on the front of his pants. "You haven't been out here in, like… months. And we were getting pretty worried, but we figured – you know – that you were real busy with your job or something. But then E. showed up a couple weeks ago, asking if anybody'd seen you… and no one could get a hold of you and…" He blinked at her, face as vacant and puppyish as ever, a shiver launching down his wiry back. "I mean, nobody wanted to say anything. Especially not – you know – to E. But we just sort of assumed the worst."

The name stung like a soccer cleat to the groin. She felt her smile plummet, a void popple in the neonate's empty stomach. The knowledge that he had been looking for her made Lily's guilt double; she rubbed a palm viciously over both eyes to ward it off, already responsible for distressing three dear friends. "It's a long story. I wanted to come. I wanted to see you; I really did. A lot of crazy shit has happened to me in the last couple months – things I can't explain. I got wrapped up in a huge mess and it kept me away. And then a bunch of other crap happened on top of that. I lost my job. I ran out of money, so my service got shut off. Then I had to sell most of my stuff, anyway, so I guess it wouldn't have mattered. That's why you couldn't reach me. I'm sorry about it… just I was scared and I didn't want to tow anything back to this place. But I missed all of you," she swore, the first whole truth in a line of feeble excuses that didn't encompass her regret. She had been frightened, yes – terrified plenty of times in these past nights. But Lily hadn't come back because she'd been ashamed.

Julius, sitting with his back pressed into hers on their roll-turned-table, leant into it. He didn't speak – he usually didn't like to try – but showed his support by clapping a hand on her thigh.

"You are worn thin. You have been to Castle Rock," Rosa noted, a moment of epiphany – but the instant she'd said it, confusion uprooted any shred of confidence upon her face. Jet hair slumped across both shoulders. Brows knitted together, deeply troubled. The woman always looked upsettingly helpless when she prophesized. "And into the giant's Tower. But I… I don't know what that means. So please forget it."

They ignored her obscure comment, as per usual. With no further foretellings for the time being, she backed away from Lily, walking around their pathetic campfire. The watered-down Malkavian pulled her pastel jacket tighter and sat cross-legged in a hill of sand. She looked like a befuddled child.

"Dude, E.'s been worried sick about you," Copper told her, ruffling the ground with a rubber Nike. His black hair was jutting out around raw ears. "He hasn't been here in close to a week, and that was only to check if anyone heard from you. The last time we really talked to him, he'd just gone looking for you over at some vampire bar downtown and they acted like you weren't around anymore. Basically told him to fuck off and stop asking questions. We figured it was bad news but he didn't want to hear that shit, so…" A swallow. "Well, I mean. You know what it looks like. You talked to him already, right?" He stared at her when she offered no immediate answer. Lily shifted uncomfortably under the fellow neonate's expectant gaze, pulling her hands into oversized sleeves.

"Not yet. We sort of had a fight," she muttered. This did nothing to deter Copper's waiting citrine eyes.

"Lil, you ha- you have to tell him," Julius said, twisting around to look at her. The red handkerchief tied around his left leg tugged itself loose and was blown off their seat, but he didn't notice. "E. thinks maybe s-" A stutter choked him; the young man avoided this troublesome word. "He thinks those downtown vampires got you k-ki-k-" It was no use finishing; his meaning was clear enough, even in fragments. "And if you... if you don't tell him you're still OK, well… I will."

"I will. I swear. I want to see him," the thin-blood swore, wrapping both hands together inside her large sweatshirt. She held her tummy, which was gurgling unpleasantly with how true that had been. Lily had been dying to see E. since walking out of Ms. Woeburne's apartment with a stolen flash drive clenched in her damp hand. "You don't know how bad I want to go and see him. But I want something to say first. I have to find a way to tell him how awful this has all been. And how fucked up these past few months were, and leaving was a mistake. And how I wish it hadn't happened, and…" And how ruefully she regretted betraying Serena, how sorry she was, and how she never should have trusted Nines Rodriguez because he had a gun and an easy smile. The girl gulped a lump rising in her gullet. "If he comes over here again before I get the chance, you can let him know I stopped by. But I don't want to just walk up and apologize. I want it to really mean something."

Copper looked placated. Julius remained unsure. "I'm still trying to get you guys splitting up through my mind," the former said, shaking his head with a weary huff. "I mean, if you and E. can't make it happen, the rest of us are fucked. Shit! Lil, forget it," he backtracked, giving a laugh of relief. The fledgling had noted how Lily's face twisted as though a horseshoe planted itself in her gut. "I'm just glad you're safe, you know? Man… we hoped, but damn did it look like the Sabbath got you."

"_Sabbat_, Copper." He stared wildly when the carrot-top righted him, looking like someone whose lyrics had been corrected.

Rosa paused for a moment from the murky focus of her private world. She was scraping flakes of bark off a dry stick; she was using it to whittle petite but furious holes in the earth. A twelfth crater had just been stabbed, sand healing its own wounds, dents lined up like good soldiers. She sounded irritated. "Why can't I add up these numbers?"

The Malkavian skipped where thirteen should've been, jabbed in her fourteenth dot, and then furiously began scrubbing one-through-four out. Five gave her an incredible amount of anxiety. She stuck a thumb in to punch it deeper, impatiently filled the gap in, and then settled for one manic 'X.'

"I guess there's a lot I ought to teach you guys about the whole vampire thing," Lily realized, watching Rosa for as long as she could stand it. The dark, dovelike woman's feverish ministrations eventually became too much to bear and so she turned quickly away. "I picked up a little. About 'us.' It might help make sense of what's going on in LA. Not that there's anything we can do about it."

"Yeah, E. said you got really into politics," Copper mumbled. He finally tired of bouncing along the surfside and settled atop a large, rusted crab cage they used as an improvised lawn chair. "What were you doing? Are there, like… vampire elections, or something?"

She couldn't decipher whether or not sarcasm lurked in the Caitiff's high-strung voice. Lily answered him honestly; what other way was there? "There definitely _aren't_ vampire elections. Not like you're thinking. There are plenty of vampire coups, though. And if I learned anything about Kindred, it's this: the smartest thing we can do is stay away from them all." (A warning such as this one should have been painful, considering who had told her that – offhand and duplicitous advice, true as it was. Recanting cheap, valid wisdom ought to rub salt in how badly her life had tanked as a result of minor Jyhad mind games. Still, it was difficult to ward off comical thoughts of Anarchs wandering Los Angeles with clipboards, canvassing for the Free-Living Dead. She could imagine Damsel toting a microphone around at some anti-establishment rally…)

"E. said you were joining a revolution," Julius remembered, glancing at his companion with soft, interested eyes the color of peat moss.

There was the metal bolt through her abdomen. Lily bit into a length of lip skin and exhaled forcefully through her nostrils. "Yeah, I really don't want to talk about it."

The thin-blood looked as though his curiosity had been piqued. He straightened, spine stiffening, hands folding themselves together and tugging nervously at chapped fingers. "I would join, too. If it meant we didn't have to li- to scrape by like this…"

Harris wasn't about to sugarcoat the cruel facts for him; glossing over problems with idealist shine landed her feet-first into this horrible muddle to begin with. She hunched, scowling downward, and did not kindle that guarded hope. "Except it's not _for_ us, Jules. It's not about us. Maybe I used to think were a part of what's happening in LA at one time, but that's only because I hadn't figured out how things work. Everybody out there has an agenda. Listen to me: there's no room in vampire society for what we are."

Copper stared at her with mute disappointment. Ragged denim was hanging from his knees. "And what _are_ we, exactly?"

"We're..." Lily cut herself off before the definition of 'thin-blood' even began. What could she tell them – what actually useful, relevant information did she have? – that they didn't already know? Nothing came to mind but a list of clan names and possible reasons for their genetic chain chinks. The unfortunate truth was that she still had no certain answer to this greatest question. At best, there were vague explanations for why so many Kindred sought their extermination – and at this point, she couldn't be sure these so-called grounds were anything but convenient fabrications for a Brujah khan. Maybe no one knew. And perhaps that was why the purebloods wanted them purged. "I suppose I still don't really have anything for you. But it's not something you want to be anywhere in this city. It's best to avoid the, um… the _real_ vampires completely. They're not interested in us. Except the Sabbat, and that's just to wipe us out; nobody's actually invested. We probably rank lower than ghouls. The Camarilla thinks we're millstones and the Anarchs…" She sucked harder on her bottom lip, abusing the flesh until it bled. "I guess they just don't care one way or another."

"W-what's an ghoul?"

Lily closed her eyes. "Never mind, Jules. It doesn't matter."

Dismissed – left wanting – they stood looking at her in that unsatisfied silence as though she was something alien.

Lily saw herself through Ms. Woeburne's eyes. It was a terrible moment.

"I'm sorry," the woman blurted, wincing, grabbing her abdomen. That distasteful twist rooting through her stomach was beginning to bloat into remorse. She allowed her head to loll forward, lint-dotted hood slipping down so that it obscured Copper and Rosa's slackened, clueless expressions. "Of course it matters. A ghoul is what you get when a human drinks vampire blood. That's all I know. And I only know it because of my roommate – he's a ghoul. He works for some nasty Nosferatu who lives around here."

Lily marked their vacant gazes, puzzled by Kindred vocabulary – noted how very little information processed – and remembered a time in the not-so-distant past when she was as ignorant as they.

"At least you'll have some new stories for Hatter, Jules. But what's a Nosferatu?" Copper didn't need to ask.

"Jesus. It's a clan," the redhead snapped with more impatience than intended. When he withdrew, cheeks blanching, she immediately switched to reverse. "No – sorry. Really. I'm sorry. It's not your fault. I don't mean to act like such an asshole. I'm just… it's just been…" But her mouth was full of cotton. _'What, Lil? What have you been?'_ She rewet a leaden tongue. "Nosferatu is one of the vampire clans. Like… families; races. We can all trace ourselves back to one of them. That's part of the problem with thin-bloods. We're like distant relatives to our original ancestors, so we're not as strong. Which means we usually can't tell what clan we're from. They all have distinctive traits. Like the Nosferatu – they're all really, really hideous. I've never seen one, but Knox has – my roommate – and he says his master is all covered in boils and sores and…"

Lily stopped. Three sets of eyes were boring uncomprehendingly at her. She felt suddenly and intensely foreign. She shuffled under her hoodie.

"The Golden Ghoul," Rosa agreed, pondering this name aloud. Long-nailed digits curled around her left ear. "In congress – always – with a quiet beast. No, wait. Why is he running _toward_ the monsters?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Copper finally snorted, fixing the pretty diviner with a squint. She didn't have any rationalization that made sense. Their resident fortuneteller abandoned her digging, clapped the sand off both palms, and sat cross-legged on a salt-covered palm leaf that had washed ashore. She pressed her eyes closed beneath thick, oil brush lashes.

"Never mind," the medium said, tangling a soot-colored fork of hair with anxious fingers. "I don't know. Never mind."

They didn't mind. They rarely did.

It was foolish to put much stock in a paranoid, diluted Malkavian's ramblings, especially when the predictions were blurrier than ocean water swirling at low tide. Lily sympathized with Rosa and had tried to befriend her in earnest during the murky thin-blood's lucid moments, but these precious clear hours dwindled as their curse rooted itself deeper. She knew nothing about her companion's history; the sable-maned girl could not remember human life, a surname, or even a Sire in meaningful ways. Yes, they had always felt bad for her –schoolmates pitying a crippled peer. But _feeling bad_ didn't require listening to that orphan seer's hazy, often frightening disclosures. There was some guilt attached, of course; there was discomfort at ignoring misty omens that distressed her, in clenching fists and sighing tiredly. Still, one shouldn't beat oneself over the head for a little selective hearing or a little self-preservation. It was far healthier for their own sanities to dismiss most of what she said.

Lily had never witnessed one of the woman's forecasts come true, however. Her preconceptions about Rosa took a sudden and vivid shift when she watched the silhouette panging down their nearest beach access stairwell gradually transform into Knox Harrington.

"What the hell are you doing here, Knox?" wasn't exactly what she'd wanted to say, but it fell out of Harris's mouth and flopped about like a fish. The flimsy Cainite gawped at him as though her roommate had just burst in on a private séance. Hazel eyes were wide, stark against several dozen freckles splattered across her nose, and she blinked as he skidded to a stop before them. The ghoul was panting; sweat darkened his auburn hairline and smelled like fear.

Misreading this awkward dash down the beach as a potential threat, their small crowd of thin-bloods scrambled upwards, wary from experience. Before they could spook off completely, though, Lily thrust up both hands and shouted "Wait!" She waved them back with fewer encouragements than demands. "Wait – it's OK. This is my friend. My other friend. But I don't…" A perplexed frown turned to shout him down in the dark. It was her sour solitude, this shoreline, these people – not a social club. It was her nook interrupted. "Why are you here, Knox?"

He drew in air, ribs heaving beneath a cheap windbreaker. The cute vampire logo – worn like a breastbone badge – was lifted and dropped by open-mouthed breaths. "Doesn't matter. No time to talk about it. We have to go," her 'other friend' puffed out, tongue dry. His whites glistened around yellow irises and lustrous, fatigued pupils. He had no leeway for explanations and simply grabbed Lily by a forearm, tugging her forward off the junkheap-turned-chair. "Come on; we really gotta' go. Like now. Like right now!"

"What? I thought you were with Bertram," the vampire said, easily twisting herself from his fingers. They'd pressed down hard enough to hurt through the sweatshirt's bulky sleeves, insistent. It rattled her.

"Yeah. Yeah, I was – I just was," he swore. Knox's pink tongue swept across his upper lip, tugging in the bottom one. Skittish nerves circled wildly in his tight, cracking tone – not unusual – but carried none of their club-slang showiness. This disturbed Lily even more than his aggressive yank and panicked expression. She glanced to her old group, mirroring their uncertainty. "Look, I'll tell you everything later. Important thing is that we have to get movin' and fast!"

"Stop," she commanded, jerking away when the ghoul made another reckless lunge for her top. "Stop. You're freaking them out. Look, I'm fine. Just go finish your meeting and I'll meet you at home in like an hour, all right?"

"No, no. Meeting is OVER. It's way over! Master said- when I heard- look, please just come with me." Knox's head shook furiously on the man's scrawny neck. His eyes were unblinking, flickering across the dark pier overpass but unable to see anything through its blackness. A month ago, Lily would have obeyed the urgings of someone with more paranormal knowledge, but had grown charier since uncovering her private file in his work records. She now demanded thorough information and specifics. It was a lesson hard-learned, but one the fledgling burned into herself by necessity. Every being had to compromise character to survive in this hungry world.

In any other circumstance, distrust would have been wise.

In this one, it dropped the door on a Jyhad death trap two echelons beyond her.

She smelled Sabbat before she saw them. It was an odor that lingered since Lily first whiffed it – random attacks in some decrepit downtown side-street – a pungent, leathery brown musk of madness and decay. She remembered the particular tint of it, like stale animal hide. She remembered how overwhelming that scent had been when the feral vampire had called for _its-fangs-on-a-rope_ and driven a knife tip into her gums. There had been a cowboy boot crushing her diaphragm and claw marks laden through her flimsy shirt. There had been a lamppost whacking like a baseball bat to her solar plexus. Not even Pacific brine and fresh wind off its back masked the telltale stink of them. She had smelled it when they first crept around an ill-lit Los Angeles alley to smash her head into a brick wall, and she had smelled it when every fiber in the thin-blood's body was screaming that she was about to die.

This time it was a woman. That surprised Lily. Caitiff scuttled towards the cold autumn water when she appeared, melting out of a shadow where Knox had entered only minutes ago. The stranger's hair was pitch, fine and uncombed; her clothing looked of similar color and texture. Her skin and smile were an icteric hue. There was nothing in the female's gap-toothed voice to suggest friendliness, and yet what terrified Harris above all else were the lilting, boomerang accents to each step she took. Dusk rolled back and forth along weak shoulders like fluid in a dunking bird's neck. The lone ghoul among them had turned his attentions east and was watching this Sabbat's feline approach with dismay.

"Well, what do you know?" It was a vaguely satisfied hum, contentment directed elsewhere, greeting her victims with a leer. There was a poisonous blue quality to the spaces between her teeth. They would have fled had there been anywhere else to go – but the menacing visitor blocked their closest exit. A chilly grin curled across bruised lips, which looked iron-deficient and battered. "The lead checks out for once. Looks like Marcus wasn't jerkin' your chain after all, Colt."

Whoever she'd been speaking to slunk around a tunnel wall and behind her in a matter of seconds. This one was distinctly male. His features were difficult to interpret beneath a mat of russet stubble and one dozen old scars lashed across that spiteful, criminal face. When he sulked forward, pace coyote-like and lurching – ungraceful belligerence – their retreat was reflexive. Julius backed farther into the surf; Copper and Rosa lagged towards a mossy ridge of sea cliff, visibly pondering how fast they might jump the chain-linked hiker's path. Knox did not move, but stood with both hands splayed flat at either side.

"Surprise, sur-fucking-prise," Colt scoffed. He sniffed the air and spat a mucusy hiss onto cool, packed-down sand. Lily did not process the blunt nose, battered tissue, or vicious Gangrel eyes.

She recognized the boots – steel-tipped, tapering, unpolished ankles cracked with age.

"I thought I smelled shit last time my squad ran through Santa Monica," the woman barked, sick grin still torn across her swollen mouth. She turned it maliciously on Rosa. "Well, well. This should be entertaining. Ductus says he wants fangs – usual bounty. I'll take the pretty Chicana and Chuckles, over here." Julius made no sound, but his jaw flapped stupidly, unaspirated 'p's chuffing out. They were mocked. "Promised my boys the rest. But I'm in a sharing mood tonight, King… so you can have first pick. What you think we should do with this ghoul – gut 'im?"

Colton shrugged, not particularly caring either way. The red-ringed stare honed itself on Lily instead. She had spotted his footwear, but he recalled her watery smell. "_Huh_. Don't that beat all. Where's your big Brujah boyfriend, lick?" King jeered, bottom teeth grinding the backs of his incisors. Both canines were bared to salty air. "Dump you?"

The neonate didn't say anything to him. She wheeled backwards, placing their ebbing bonfire between herself and the two sneering Sabbat. There were three more telltale shapes slinking through the backdrops, leisurely closing in. _Five_? Harris felt her hands grow clammy and arthritic; they fisted, joints itching furiously. She glanced at Knox, waiting for some indication of what to do – how to behave – but he had no advice for her and stood frozen, fine hair prickling along the back of his neck. She glanced at her friends, who cowered. The thin-blood felt both cheeks run cold. Every nerve ending above her heart went numb in a handful of seconds. Her knuckles turned tacky and slow.

"Wait. Heard something," one of the Lasombra's associates snorted, a limping and malnourished beast in a monotone grey. She looked back at him with doubtful, grudging tolerance.

"Shit-face, you heard nothing. Always jumping at fucking rats," King barked, clipping short whatever the female might have said. He apparent called her 'Neskie' and the others various profanities. His snarl jerked towards the trio of faceless shovelheads before boring down on Lily once more. She looked at them all, bristling there across the Californian coast. "You're going to pull yourself together and shut the fuck up," he continued, slavering. "Cause I _earned_ this."

Knox looked at Colton.

Colton did not look at Knox's hand, crawling gradually towards his pocket.

Lily looked, though – as the Gangrel took one step forward, and the ghoul tore a .45 from his coat, right arm shaking, hefting it at King's skull.

There was a hammer click followed by one loud, disorienting _BANG_. Before either Caitiff or Sabbat reacted, a bloody crater blew through one of the henchmen's temples, plastering scalp over shell fragments. They scattered. Inés Herrera whirled to face her bristling leader, expression wild, sure he'd been shot in the brain. Copper grappled halfway up the bluff stair gate, soles slipping uselessly against wire. Rosa dropped behind them. Julius didn't move at all, petrified shin-down in the breaking waves. Harrington was standing in the same spot, pistol extended, lids peeled back from venom gold eyes. Colton's body did not fall.

Lily dragged her gaze to the dead vampire's smoking cranium as it crumbled to cinders, noting its impossible angle, and realized in that moment that the bullet had not come from her cohort's gun. King had not been shot and Knox hadn't fired. The Gangrel reeled to a halt only two feet from that revolver, stature drooping, chin swinging back and forth between Santa Monica Pier and the beach house nestled several yards above. A corpse whisked away behind them. In that instant, he had forgotten his trophy kills.

The soft, bitter sea wind dropped. Growling stopped. For another few breaths, everything around them – from gulls to Kindred rumblings – became oppressively quiet.

The fastest to recover, Knox pulled his trigger and blew a hunk of lead into the Sabbat's left lung.

Gunfire exploded down the beachfront.

It sounded like an air raid. Lily had never been in an actual shootout, but she had no other descriptor for what suddenly came whorling down around her; it was a scene straight from old Vietnam movies and cheap first-person-shooters. It was a supercell roaring from the west. Red saliva spurted from Colton's mouth; he was propelled backwards, spitting plasma, chest deflating. Ammunition hurtled into the ground, kicking up white spray like refined sugar. Nozzle flash lit up that stretch of darkness beneath the boardwalk. Sabbat soldiers drew weapons of various origins only to end up plowed face-first into earth, limbs dissolving, all attempts at return-fire spreading haphazardly up the coast. Copper's fence was blown compassionlessly off its rusted hinges and he went flying into a black wave. Semi-automatic bursts minced their crude furniture. Rogue Anarch bullets burrowed targets but didn't stop, unpartisan in picking their flesh; Rosa's knees had locked and three of them ripped through her hands and straight into the girl's face. The wounded Lasombra, shredded shoulders oozing copiously through her shirt, liquefied into a crook of shade. Julius dared a mad race through the remnants of their attackers – over a mix of dirt and gore that looked like processed meat – managing six steps before the crossfire cleavered him down. A Gangrel footman's slug ruptured his kidney and Jules simply timbered over, collapsing flat onto a spilling mess of innards. He struck earth like sixty pounds of eyed potatoes. His shoe popped off and went sailing towards a manhole, plunking into its depths. The carcass was gone a blink before the Puma. She never saw him again.

Knox, caught in the barrage, didn't bother finding another target. The ghoul balked and stumbled when his heel caught a conch. He spun around for cover and was riddled full in the back with a half-round of machinegun shells, feathers shredding out from his winter jacket, scarlet speckling the base of his head.

Lily did not try to run. She fell flat on her belly, ducking behind a stout ring of cement blocks that penned their campfire, hands instinctively clasping over her neck. Cartridges smacked into the slabs, chips blasting off. Smoke soured oxygen. Harrington's loose gun cartwheeled overhead, clearing the pit, thwacking impotently on a smooth stone just left of the thin-blood's foot.

Knox's body landed on top of her. He was dead before he connected with the ground.

Lily lay there until the shooting stopped.

She didn't move. The young woman could feel lifeless weight pushing down, sprawled diagonally across her backside. She could see a clenched hand slung upward in her peripherals. Pallor mortis already gripped his liver. He was cold – so cold – the ghoul's only warmth left in blood that bubbled from his bullet holes. It seeped into her clothing. It pooled on the sand, sliding beneath her, drying in the fledgling's naval. She did not want to turn over. She was too afraid to see the lively, familiar face – now slack and pasty – suspended in a perpetual moment of terror. Instead, the Caitiff waited for unfriendly claws to tangle into ginger hair and haul her towards a violent death. She listened for reality to return, for the sounds of the surf and the chittering seabirds and the wind rippling over the ocean.

She lay there for an age. Perhaps five minutes; perhaps five hours. It didn't matter. No one came for her.

She couldn't think.

By the time Lily opened her eyes, Knox was not Knox but a corpse – taut, colorless and ice beneath her fingertips. She did not look back at him. She rolled the butchered ghoul off her, stood up on wobbly legs, and left his body for the tide.

She was alone. She was standing on a ravaged spine of beach in the blue-black hours of night.

Lily picked up the castoff .45 and walked away, pressing footprints in the ash.


	62. The Donner Party

**The Donner Party**

Inés Herrera sunk all ten fingers into the lapels of Colton's jacket and hefted him, cruor running down her arms, out of a stolen minivan.

Blood seeped from his shot stomach. The backseat was coated in it – mixed with a thick mess of auburn hair, sopping Kleenex, and shreds of glistening brown meat that looked like chicken livers. Inés thought they were entrails. The bullet had shredded diagonally through his body, entering just above King's naval and weeviling upwards until it pricked a lung. Something coated the shell that smelled peppery. It left a ragged, beyond-foul path that vaguely resembled spent jack-o-lanterns – pulpy, pungent – seeds dangling from guts raked with dull spoons. The wound steamed in downtown Los Angeles's cool November air. Red soaked through three layers of clothing – wife-beater, leather jacket, and the shirt she'd torn over her head to form a crude tourniquet.

The woman had plucked lead shards out of one shoulder as she drove; an Anarch FMJ sailed straight through on that damned beach, cleanly entering and exiting her body. Whatever slammed into Inés hurt like a bitch, but at least the sting was relatively normal… tattered muscle already began to stitch itself back together, mending beneath dim light. She was tough; she'd been able to shake it off. Colt – on the other, less-fortunate hand – had been downed by a slug loaded with… whatever this stinking chemical shit was… and went flying into a patch of scrub grass. Sidestepping her own assassination, the Lasombra dragged him out, beneath an aqueduct run-off, and then through a sewage access pipe that opened into warm parking lot concrete. King bled the entire way. _"Like a stuck goddamn hog,"_ she could remember him grunting once-upon-a-time, kicking the eyeless corpse of a blood doll suicide. Without any more appealing options, Herrera punched through the nearest window and stole herself a Chrysler Town & Country. It was trademark _champagne gold_.

She had simply popped the rear door and rolled Colt in. Pellets were pushing themselves out of her skin and hitting the floorboard before they'd sped out of Santa Monica. Not Colton. He was laying there – a curling, kicked dog – still bleeding, fluids staining the car mats. Inés drove as fast as she dared with swirling vision and a rising sense of horror in her gullet. They nearly collided with a Honda (then, shortly after, a mailbox) before reaching Main Street and swerving towards Hallowbrook Hotel. Even with King's insides hanging outside his body behind her, she did not forget to kick the vehicle's license plate off its frame. Herrera had tossed it into the gutter they climbed out of. They'd still have to destroy the automobile, of course – couldn't have kine police nosing around their den for grand theft auto perps – but there wasn't enough time for that now.

The front entrance had been nailed over years ago, when this old boarding house was first stamped derelict. Their pack moved in shortly after and decided to keep it that way; the putrid, termite-eaten façade kept nosy humans from making inquiries. So Inés hauled Colt beneath an unsuspicious lean-to and into their den's dilapidated foyer. One of his hands smeared red all up and down the faded grey wallpaper. He was considerably taller than her; his boot tips scraped the floor. She nearly dropped him in the narrow, peeling stairwell – one of her construction boots hit a splintered plank and sent the Lasombra tripping forward – but managed to recover. With King slumped over her back, she slogged up to the second level lobby before spilling him into a battered couch.

He painted sofa cushions sticky bronze within seconds, vitae drying into rot green textiles. It was a sickly shade amongst all the worn picture frames, asbestos vents and walls swelling with insulation – white Styrofoam puffed out of foundations like a body pouring maggots. None of this well-known scenery sunk in. The Gangrel said nothing intelligible, but he emitted a pissed, boarlike sound every few minutes that let Herrera know her companion hadn't died yet. Colton's torso was curling and the bruised muscle viciously clenched between grunts. Being a shovelhead didn't exempt him from feeling pain.

King was her friend. She could have murmured comforting lies and stroked his hair, but saw no point. Marcus would kill him if the napalm didn't.

Two of their packmates had been skirting about the wings when Inés heaved Colt in, and one slunk backwards whilst the other darted through a ramshackle door. He was headed for their Ductus, no doubt, and Herrera tried to swallow her nausea with limited success. She hadn't wanted to bring him here. She wanted to hide him somewhere. But the Gangrel was dying, and there was no other place to go. No secret-safe-place where he wouldn't have been found, anyway – much as she loved Colt, blood bonds were traitorous, and Marcus's hold was no looser than his. Small crimson bubbles were dripping out of King's nose. Vermillion plastered her spine, seeping through the woman's coat and sports bra and staining bare skin. The ache in her deltoid didn't feel like anything anymore.

Torres probably knew already, son-of-a-bitch.

Very little color traces stuck in the wrenched Gangrel face, tongue panting needlessly, a visage full of rustic red-browns that had since faded uniform yellow. She thought seriously again about giving him her blood. It wouldn't matter, though – and Marcus might tear out Inés's jugular vein for an unchecked act of mercy. When they'd limped sloppily to the escape van, she'd fed him one spare pouch of _B+_ stolen from Santa Monica Medical Clinic that had been stuffed in her army pants. It was barely enough to wet his gums. Most had sloshed over the broken stopper and added to a growing pool on the upholstery.

Only one option left at this point: to hope their Ductus was in a forgiving mood. Herrera didn't think it was likely. Torres generally stormed around frothing at-the-mouth on perfectly good days, and his fuse burned particularly short where Colton was concerned; he wouldn't discuss what happened after that last failed assassination, but she could guess. There was no public shaming, meant to set frightening examples for younger omegas. This time, it had been private and doubly threatening. King slunk out of Marcus's repurposed "throne room" with tail tucked, grave and untalkative, but he still carried both ears – weathered no visible mark of punishment. It was a bad sign. It meant their war leader had lost redemptive patience with this pup… considered him beyond corporal correction. It meant that the Gangrel had been given an ultimatum, and if he neglected to deliver for whatever reason, Colt's loss would be charted up to collateral regardless of who ended him.

It meant that, when the Ductus arrived minutes later, Inés abandoned King in his ruined loveseat and pressed her back submissively against a far wall.

"Where the fuck is everyone?" Marcus demanded, paying no immediate mind to the wounded Sabbat soldier slung across their common room. Colton was still draining like a cracked wine bottle. There were three shovelheads accompanying him – Johnny, Sal and Burgundy – mutts jumping along at their master's heels. Clear dog eyes, vicious natures and an inability to sit still defined them, blending individuals into a hungry unit. No free will, no preferences… at least, not ones to be exercised without the expressed permission of generals. What unified these Kindred was a shared resent for humanity they now failed to understand. The whelps looked indifferently at King, as though he were an inanimate piece of scenery_. _Or a throw-pillow.

Herrera glanced from her saturated shoes to the tarnished brass chandelier to Torres's shadow on a broken armchair. His lips were turned downwards around fierce Brujah teeth, dark face unsoiled and glossy in the dim lighting, clothes lacking bloodstains. The Ductus did not appear particularly raging – not yet – but there was an air of expectancy about him that lifted her fine hairs. All that muscle mass was waiting for ignition. Because no one answered him, she did.

"It's just us," the Lasombra said, chin tucked defensively to her chest, glancing at Marcus's dorsals from beneath black bangs. The pack shifted and forked over this gaping, echoing room – curtained it in strips. She felt her arteries stand out on jaundiced skin.

He spun on her, hornet eyes wide and focused – yellow on black – mouth hinged open just enough to taste the damp air. Inés felt like she was staring down a wolverine.

Herrera didn't need further encouragement to explain – not with him staring so close. Spit ran sourly down her throat as she related what happened on Santa Monica's beach less than forty-five minutes ago. It was best to keep this story short. "That lead was a set-up. We were ambushed on the beach – outnumbered. I think they baited us in. Everyone else is gone."

The Ductus's expression didn't shift one centimeter.

She swallowed dryly, unsure of how wise further elaboration would be. Marcus's frozen eyes unnerved her, but in no way did Inés desire for that stare to change. The woman didn't foster delusions; as bad as this deadlocked anticipation was, it did not even approach how terrible his unleashed temper could be. "I don't know who was behind it," she muttered, the truth. "Couldn't tell how many there were. Happened too fast. Hit us from the side. And they had heavy firepower… automatics, mostly. M16s, maybe. We couldn't…"

The Lasombra stopped talking – as she was saying nothing and Torres lost interest sentences ago. His paralyzed, intent look hadn't dropped; it merely switched from Inés to Colton, who couldn't summon enough attention to respond. The Gangrel bled under observation exactly as he had alone in back of their stolen van. Sal and Burgundy, stupid omegas, followed him closely because the Ductus had. John, though, kept watching Herrera; his eyes were hazel, unblinking, and hovered as though waiting for her to argue. She didn't. She focused back on her feet.

Marcus strode over to the couch. He studied King casually, who flinched into the tattered cloth cover, and nothing more. His skin had lost nearly every pigment by this point. "I told you, meat," was all the Brujah said.

Inés felt her stomach cramp. She slid down the ivy-patterned doorframe.

Colton's splayed hands threw shadows across his face like palm fronds. There was blood between the fingers from clutching his wounds, which sluggishly refused to heal; holes welled open and uncaring. The old scars leathering his cheeks wrinkled weakly, dull teeth flashing in stale air. It was a gesture of submission underplayed by fear. Torres didn't care; he'd shook on a plea bargain, and those terms had been broken. Capital punishment was well within a Ductus's duty to their tribe. Violent thrashings were well within Marcus's personal code, as well; he had always led his pack with coups, public beatings, Gauntlet runs and communal beheadings. Physical power displays impressed Sabbat – were legitimized by the clans that belonged to their order. It would've been foolish to expect he'd turn over a new leaf now.

But Inés wanted Colt to fight. She wished he would have found a way to stand from that shitpile sofa and growl. Or run. Or _something_ – anything, really – besides lay hobbled and ashen and waning at the feet of a mad Brujah pit-bull. She didn't want to sit bowed against a wall, watching him flayed like undercooked sirloin. She didn't want to see the man's flesh stripped off his bones. This execution would be ugly no matter its style, but if he resisted, then maybe King might be remembered. Inés could think about his last moment as the bold release of hatred bitten back for years – not cornered into this pathetic couch. When Torres eventually turned _punitive practice_ on her – as the Lasombra was sure he would – for whipping by association, she needn't focus on how Colton had been too licked to struggle. He wouldn't die on his back.

Except that he did. Marcus bared condemning fangs, jerked his chin towards the incapacitated Gangrel, and laid first blood with a nailed punch to King's face.

Because he did nothing – and because she knew she couldn't – Inés lurched up. She felt like fog. She threw her elbow into one side of the Brujah's face.

"Back the fuck off, Marcus-!" It was all prayer and no conviction. Her voice fractured. Three Sabbat gnarred at their sister, and the Ductus rebounded, surprise overpowering the reactionary anger that pulsed through both of them. Blood spurt from his hooked nose. Her eyes were large and dark, dark brown. "Fuck you – it wasn't our fault-"

She wasn't able to finish because Torres gruffed an order and Johnny shot her in the back of the head.

Gore misted out of sable hair with a loud, flat '_bang!_' Half the body faded to shadow; half dissolved to black flakes. It never hit Hallowbrook Hotel's gaudy, cigar-burnt rug.

Colton fell out of the loveseat and ripped his teeth into a patch of skin beneath Marcus's ribcage.

They tore him apart.


	63. Gemini

**Gemini**

"Hello?" Nines asked, but he already knew who it was.

London's tone was paper-thin pepper through her nose. "_You're practically _collecting_ thin-blood scapegoats now, are you?"_ she snipped, full of disapproval and dented eyebrows. He wasn't surprised by her lucky guess – knew it was more so the product of investigative resources than luck – but had housecleaned enough to feel confident she'd unearthed nothing beyond vague hunches. Hunches were fine for Anarch operations. Neither nervous Primogen nor overeager administrators could launch witch-hunts from funny feelings or bad tastes… otherwise, LaCroix would've sounded an alarm on him ages ago.

So, secure in the absence of viable evidence, Rodriguez kicked one boot against the nearest wall and grinned. Because it belonged to his shitty apartment, plaster flaked off and spotted the bare wood. "Since when did you grow a humanitarian bone, Woeburne?" Then, less-interested but equally flippant: "And I thought I told you not to ring my personal number anymore." He scuffed the paint specks with a sole and was mildly annoyed when they didn't disappear, but instead left long checkmarks over his floor. Not even worth polishing off. Especially not with the clock ticking 5:24 PM and no spare blood in his refrigerator. November was the time of year where nights hit early, and vampires rose impatient for food. His stomach grumbled. The cramped desk stood across his dingy room with a phonebook and an interrupted list of Santa Monica contacts. The sometimes-working TV screen displayed his reflection in glossy, distorted black.

She ignored his second question, sighed, and attacked the first with barracuda precision. _"Well, let's see. Why would I possibly think you had anything to do with this? For one, there's the brash, trigger-happy style of that event. There's the use of contraband weaponry I know you've got access to, mainly because I was the fool who dumped a freezer truck of it into your hands. You remember that, I'm sure. Ah – not to be forgotten! – the near Masquerade violation, which has become something of an Anarch brand. So I can only _assume_ you were somehow behind it. Fortunately for your sake, no one really mourns the loss of a few-" _

"Why don't you tell me why you're really calling?" the Brujah suggested.

Her lips pursed. (Or he figured they did, anyway.) _"I'm giving you a warning, Nines. This is not the time for Anarchs to play fast-and-loose with Camarilla law. I don't begrudge you a little revenge after what's happened, so long as you ply it carefully, and I certainly don't criticize a hit against the Sabbat. But as your Seneschal and as your…" _(_What_…? Associate? Business partner? Contact? 'Friend' was far too presumptuous, but 'advisor' would only offend him.) _"Your peer,"_ she decided, _"let me be clear. If there is another incidence of preemptive violence in this city and I have reason to suspect you are operating outside your precinct-"_

"Domain," he corrected.

_"Precinct." _The Ventrue's insistence was deadly firm. He did not contest it. Semantics weren't worth cutting a tough wire line. _ "There will be no more lenience from me. If I turn up your handprints over our territories again - whoever they've killed - I will report it to the Prince directly, I will push forward with what comes, and he will_ not_ hesitate. You understand, I think, what I mean."_

Rodriguez hadn't liked Woeburne touting about, calling herself _his_ Seneschal – as though that pretentious title meant anything to him beyond symbolism and politics – but decided she hadn't intended to provoke. Still, the message was sober. He had expected her to accept his proposal for aid against the Hallowbrook pack – especially after how easily _this_ bloody stunt fell into place – and Serena's resistance unsettled him. More than that, it might disturb his agendas. Nines frowned. He de-cocked his shoe and stood straight, abandoning the patchy stucco. "Is this a threat?"

"_This is a one-time courtesy,"_ she corrected, English calm and measured. The Brujah tossed her phrasing about in his ear. 'Courtesy' was preferable to 'threat,' he supposed, so long as there was a genuine difference between the two terms beyond flimsy sugarcoating. To her credit, Serena anticipated his skepticism and elaborated: _"I will only say this once, so you'd be wise to heed me. Do what you will to the Sabbat. But cover your tracks. Because if I find them again – if I find them anywhere near our agendas – I won't be calling you beforehand. I won't be calling you, at all."_

There was a somber pause.

"I appreciate it," Nines told her.

_"Yes,"_ was all London said.

Mollified, he dismissed the urge to jab at Woeburne and returned to tonight's plans. They were big ones. Not colossal, mind-fucking ones, _but_…

He paced across his cramped 'dining room' (a drab, cabinet-choked kitchen corner), snatched up the phonebook, and flipped it to a circled number. Rodriguez didn't bother scrutinizing London's leniency – not beyond insisting to himself she had no solid proof against him. _Hunches _– that was all. There was no damning footprint to link him because downtown's chief hadn't been on the beach; he'd been in Hollywood with Baron Abrams's powerful alibi and at least three neutral witnesses. There was no satellite camera photograph. There were no victims to argue; the Santa Monica strike team had strict orders to ensure no one skulked away from their hit alive. There were only hunches and those returning ill feelings.

"_But I don't recommend sticking your neck out on that side of town any time soon,"_ the Ventrue sliced in, unaware of how relevant her asides were. _"Therese Voerman will skin your people alive if she catches them, with or without my testimony. And I wouldn't count on my testimony."_

Nines had to admit – he wondered about it from time to time, these past couple weeks. Were the feelings really that ill? LaCroix genes ran black, even for that foul clan, but his Childe could be authentic tooth-and-nail when she had enough motivation. Thin-skinned, no doubt, and if the girl hadn't been completely paranoid before she sure as hell was now… but this was a definite olive-branch. Reciprocal and probably debt-inspired, but one couldn't hope for too much more sincerity than mutual enemies from bluebloods. Rodriguez counted it. Who knew? She was wary of him – they'd traded a few surly licks and unsportsmanlike shots – but maybe old London could get over it long enough to play one round in his favor of her own volition.

Naturally, such an arrangement would have to stay on the Jyhad sidelines; this was especially true since His Majesty pulled her from the Free-State case file post-car bomb. Operating freely had never been an option for either of them. She handled discreet well, though… provided someone gave her sufficient justifications to do so. Could he make that happen? A Prince's progeny forwarding Anarch means? Curious proposition, but one he was liking the sound of more and more since her promotion.

"Woeburne, about that. I have a plan," Nines announced, but didn't get much farther before the Seneschal cut him off with a groan.

"_Oh, __no. No, no, no._ _Stop talking_._"_

"It's not a violent plan," was the next attempt. This didn't do much to convince her.

_"I'm sorry – does "no" translate with you?_ _Did you even listen to what I just said? I don't want to hear about this. You REALLY don't want that. Stop while you're ahead, thank me for my patience, and hang up the telephone."_

Baron LA would forfeit if she started intimidating or waving about formal prosecution, sure enough, but wasn't quite ready to throw in his towel yet. He dragged over the metal desk chair and sat, keeping a thumb stuck in his yellow pages place. "It doesn't involve your Prince or his claims."

"_I don't care,"_ she snapped, bristling. Unconditionality and commanding attitudes from a Ventrue didn't shock him. Of course Serena didn't want to know details – once someone chucked a Camarilla agent one or two juicy leads, they were obligated to dive nose-first into the thick. After blackmail, 'charity work,' official assignments and assassination attempts, she'd learned enough about dealing with Nines Rodriguez to avoid being suckered into another scheme. He read fear of her Sire's disapproval behind that high-strung voice. _"I received your offer. I'm not interested. You might be authentic, but I seriously doubt it, and what's more: I never asked for your idea of help, Mr. Rodriguez. This is not a joint council. You deal with your side of the city – your forces have already shown us what that means – and I'll handle mine in the way I prefer. Which involves far less dynamite and swaggering than would keep your attentions. Besides, I've got a meeting with the Regent's Apprentices this evening, and that is more than enough to worry about without indulging Anarch 'plans.'"_ Pause; snort. _"There's an oxymoron for you."_

There was a familiar, awkward, foot-in-mouth silence. The Brujah leant back with raised eyebrows. Ms. Woeburne grimaced self-consciously.

"Why the _fuck_ do I persist in trying to talk to you?"

"_It's been a long week,"_ London mumbled, straightening herself up across the wire. _"'Bitch' is currently my only mode."_

The insults weren't really excess hate or hostility at this point; they were a normal form of communication. Nines pressed on. "Look, Cam," he started, laying things out as simply as possible. Ventrue didn't generally trust in 'simple,' but it was the only sure way to prevent her from slamming down the phone. "Party line aside, you and me have a mutual problem. I _am_ going to continue hitting Sabbat on my own fronts; it'll slow down your troubles and mine, and by the way? I don't want or need to listen to the hawing you call council. But I can't personally deal with a whole city of this shit anymore and keep downtown afloat. So, I've got something worked out to secure Santa Monica. Before you bark, listen. I am aware you've been taken out of commission. But this needs to get done and it will benefit both sides. No hidden complexities here; we're talking about pest control, not war. There is no need to involve our people. More than that, it'll be easy on you – I'll only need your help in a peripheral sense. But you're not gonna' love the details."

The man stopped for a moment, waiting for her quick-tempered comment… but it didn't come. Probably because Serena bit back whatever she wanted to say for the sake of winning a point. Either way, it worked for his purposes; Rodriguez glanced down at that single flagged line on the dog-eared page. He ruffled a hand through dark hair. He continued.

"I'm guessing – when LaCroix briefed you on LA – he mentioned that Therese and Jeanette Voerman used to be Anarchs, while back before you graced us with your presence," Nines noted. (_'Damn – over a year ago, now.'_) Woeburne did not disagree, so he figured either this assumption was correct or that she was too prideful to admit ignorance. Again, _which_ didn't matter. What mattered to this declining chief was that the latter's chaotic tendencies fueled urban legends; what mattered was that _The Asylum_ hostess's ideas about undead 'liberty' in no way meshed with the Camarilla way of life or her turncoat sibling's. Everyone knew it. Everyone knew timing was the only thing keeping them from nuclear fallout. It was a precarious situation chased by large wakes… but one with the potential to work out extremely well for his objectives. Those winds were already blowing; the challenge was to determine which direction they pushed. "I think Jeanette still ought to be. And I think, with a little convincing, she'd feel the same way."

Here came the negativity. His forecast had been right: Woeburne _didn't_ like the notion at all, and expressed her skepticism with popped lips and an eye-roll. _"Nines, Nines…"_ the Seneschal scolded, shaking her head, a long-distance you-should-know-better._ "Even were I the littlest bit amenable to your suggestion: we _can't_ trust her."_

"London, who in the hell is talking about trust? I don't trust Jeanette. I don't trust YOU," he pointed out, bracing a foot on his bedroom threshold. The cheap chair creaked. Rodriguez crossed his arms. "I never said anything about 'trust.' Fact, I'd just about trust a baby to a Bishop before I'd turn a shoulder on either one of those nutjobs. But can she serve our purposes? I'm thinking yes. At least until a time we decide that dealing with the Voermans isn't worth it."

"_She's the whore little sister of an impotent ex-Baron,"_ Serena observed – a blasé, smart-assed grin.

Well. Yeah.

But being a whore little sister of an impotent ex-Baron didn't spoil her uses entirely. The Prince's uptight Childe had no reason to like that crazy bitch – she had a natural distaste for wantonness in any fashion, personally and professionally opposed to women like Jeanette – but Woeburne was smart enough to see her strategic appeal. She had used it once. Too much perfume and too few shirt buttons wouldn't bar a tricky blueblood from using it again. "You're still listening? Keep doing that. Now. I know the Camarilla is caught up in titles and whatnot, but here's the thing: I don't care about 'em," Nines declared. It was only half-honest; he cared when they were useful to public eye (à la meetings with Seneschal Los Angeles), but not on battlefields or in covert war rooms. "When it comes to what matters – influence, connections and power holds – it's obvious, at least to me, which Voerman really runs Santa Monica. Therese is so caught up in private feuds that I don't think she even understands how serious the Black Hand situation is over there. And she won't accept resources from your organization; it'll undercut her worth, slow down their ventures. Why do you think things look the way they do out there? Woman's a fucking pacifist; she doesn't have the stomach or the firepower. But Jeanette? If I can get Jeanette and I seeing eye-to-eye on the Sabbat issue, then…"

London butted in, having worked the benefits out for herself – and why not, seeing as how she'd been the one to mark those warehouse printouts in warning-siren red? Derelict Hallowbrook Hotel provided headquarters for their shared foe, but wasn't the only port-of-call; most clued-in Kindred knew a local Ductus ran several beachfront depots just beyond Therese's precinct lights. Weapon smuggling, human trafficking, meth-cooking… who knew the finer points of their evenings beyond the all-important fact that shitty stretch of coast _crawled_ with them? Control those stock hubs – perhaps shut them down completely – and the Sabbat would be limping along with a major blow to their underbelly. It wasn't a bad move, in theory. It wasn't illegal or in violation of any treaties he knew of. And, because the Ventrue recognized this, she chose to pay attention… for a bit longer, at least. _"Understand this question is purely hypothetical. But where would I come in, so to speak?"_

The Brujah smiled. That was the tone shift he'd been waiting for. "It's a small job – well within your resources – but it has to be done. Here's why: we empower Jeanette only so she can fulfill our needs. We _don't_ let her off her chain. I'm not – and I think you'll agree – willing to let that headcase run around without surveillance, whatever her affiliation. You can take care of that for me. It's in both our interests; the Camarilla can keep an eye on her political activity, and I can be sure she's not sharpening a knife for my back without looking like a double-agent. There's also the added bonus of being able to track my movement in the area – and your Board knows Therese is worthless to them, anyway. They won't miss her. Just saying."

He could practically hear Woeburne's cogs processing the information – running tests, exploring scenarios, hunting for deceptions or hidden loopholes. She felt dubious. Still, Nines could tell Serena was intrigued by the prospect of birddogging their involvement in Santa Monica; it guaranteed exclusive access to Free-State goings-on (low-clearance access, but legitimate, nevertheless), and therefore increased her ability to make good on those 'tell my Papa' threats. _"I don't conspire with Anarchs, so I promise nothing,"_ she insisted, more bluster than sincerity. Rodriguez chuckled to himself because it was such a predictable thing for London to say. _"But for now: do whatever it is you're planning on doing. You may then contact me afterwards with updates. If it suits me and does not offend my organization, I may consider abetting you. If it does not suit me – depending on how _much_ it doesn't – do keep in mind that I cannot guarantee silence." _

"You say that like I don't automatically figure every word I give you ends up in a stack on LaCroix's desk." Nines hummed in the blank space. "Cool off and close what business you got tonight, London. I'll sort out mine. All goes well… then we'll be in touch."

"_I'm sure you will be."_ It was a statement that smacked somehow. She chased the condescension with a hesitation – a scoff – a joke all to herself. _"Best of luck. Call me when it's over. Or something." _

"Will do," he confirmed, conversation finished, and waited for her to hang up.

She wavered.

"…_Nines?"_ the vampire tried, cautious, wondering if he was still there.

He mocked her. A little. "…London?"

Woeburne dismissed it. _"By any chance have you actually met Voerman Junior?"_ the Ventrue posed, sounding like she had a secret. This was a valid query – appropriate for their purposes – so he decided to answer.

"I've dodged that bullet these past few years." (Perhaps because downtown's headman instructed his followers to avoid the tarnished burb like plague since Therese opened her legs for Sebastian LaCroix? He'd never lent faith to her type – never lent faith to _her_ on principle, actually – and the flexibility of Voerman Senior's loyalties hadn't startled him whatsoever. She'd labeled herself Anarch so many years ago to avoid conflict with the nearby Nines Rodriguez, to keep Baron Central LA out of her Domain – and now that he had been kicked from top-dog status, flew Camarilla banners to appease their new Prince.)

Something told him this was the response Serena expected. _"Would you like my very professional advice?"_ she asked, brows arched.

"I'm all ears, Ms. Seneschal."

One thing could be counted on with Camarilla high-rankers: request their opinion, and they'd gladly give it. Those stuck-up bastards were too proud not to condescend in such a becoming way. Lo and behold, this one did just that – candid, straightforward and brutal. _"Jeanette Voerman is a fucking nutter,"_ she crisply informed him. The language was stronger than he'd been used to, but her criticisms of that wildcat weren't. _"If you two meet face-to-face – which she'll likely insist upon before discussing any binding arrangements – it would be very wise to pack heat. Preferably of a large caliber. Rumors to the contrary, I don't think her games are all of the Valley variety."_

"Noted."

She wasn't finished, though, and proceeded without coaxing. The odd thing was how energized her voice sounded all of a sudden – keen and furtive, eager to spread small disparagements. Rodriguez wondered if their trash-talking Ventrue had missed out on some crucial K-8 gossip years. _"I might also want to mention that Little Sister has a remarkably short attention span. Don't dawdle; in-and-out with your business checklists, or she'll start to bore. Believe me, you don't want that – she'll never shut up. However. Here's the girl's kryptonite: she __hates_ _her predecessor. Pit them against one another. Make her feel important. Jeanette is viciously jealous and desperate for anyone's approval; if you appeal to her resentment of Therese – and you are flattering – she'll hear what you have to say."_ London reconsidered this promise. She might have been overeager to smear the loon, but her information was good; it had practical applications that might come in handy over these next few hours. (He certainly hadn't forgotten how LaCroix's straight-laced agent played Voerman to expose Naim Carroll, craven son-of-a-bitch.)_ "Or at least the first five minutes of it."_

"Dually noted."

There was a moment of hesitancy. _"And I don't know if this is pertinent,"_ Woeburne added, biting her lip. _"But on the off-chance… she has a weird thing for the English."_

Nines laughed. "Alright, London. Thanks. I think I can handle it."

"_No doubt,"_ she clipped. Having nothing else to report, the woman closed their dialogue with a sniff and a short puff of air. _"Goodbye."_

He waited again for the receiver to click down. It didn't happen.

"_And Nines?" _Serena added, stretching the call, just as she had minutes before. The Brujah chuffed.

"What, Woeburne."

"_Don't leave her alone with your drink,"_ she snarked.

Then London hung up in earnest.

**II.**

Later that night, after tossing the cataleptic body of an unobservant valet driver back into their parked car, Nines decided he'd waited long enough. While the Brujah wasn't averse to biding his time in theory, there were some situations that demanded immediacy, and others that simply didn't benefit from extended pissing around. This one belonged to the latter.

So, glancing up a dark alley of downtown Los Angeles – making sure no customers loitering outside of the cheap _Thai Kitchen_ had seen him jump this poor kid into a Toyota – Rodriguez crossed Fifteenth Street and ducked into an inconspicuous convenience store. Burnt-out bulbs displayed its name in neon green Spanglish. The place was unclean and grimy, overstocked shelves packed with junk food leaving no room for elbows or clumsy turns, but it didn't knock his mood or hinder his purposes. Stomach full of warm sustenance against a breezy California evening, the Anarch's temperament was optimistic. He bought a carton of cigarettes, today's newspaper and one bottle of windshield fluid as a pretext to find a quiet corner and call _The Asylum_. (Well, and because he needed the windshield fluid. The cigarettes and _LA Times_ were optional.)

Voerman's number had been scribbled on a piece of college-ruled scrap paper and crammed in his jeans pocket. Once a ring tolled, Rodriguez threw it away. He listened for an answer. The cold glass doors of a liquor refrigerator captured his image sidelong in a way that made Nines oddly uneasy. Black coat, black hair, blue stare absent of any real expression – they all seemed ash white in the freezer. He glanced away and shot an unfriendly scowl in the direction of some boozed-up beach bum who was looking at him strangely. Funny how it was always the bottom-feeders of society that noticed something _off_…

The answering machine had just started to cycle when someone picked up. If Therese chimed in on the other line, he would've dial toned her without speaking and tried back tomorrow. They'd never exchanged words, and the Baron had no itch to start conversing with some treacherous Prince hopeful now. _'Weak-kneed witch.' _She was every bit as bossy and self-entitled as Seneschal Woeburne, every bit as Camarilla – trying to look like big women on campus with FBI suits and shoulder pads – but shit. At least Woeburne didn't bounce back and forth between factions, a rat bailing sinking ships. You knew exactly where you stood with London. With these Santa Monicans, however, it was a coin flip depending on their current frames of mind, bankrolls, and dumb luck. Nines Rodriguez did not place bets on luck. There'd be no bargaining with the cutthroat elder sister; not today; not a chance.

Fortunately, _The Asylum_'s "Salutations!" was both too chipper and too slutty to have come from Therese.

Baron LA didn't waste any more time. "Jeanette Voerman, right?" he said, a rhetorical question; it was already obvious who poppled on the other line. Serena had suggested he dive into negotiations immediately, and it sounded like a solid strategy from what this city whispered about its resident freak show. "You got a minute to talk serious?"

The girl didn't recognize him, though – and why would she? _"Hello, Sexy Voice! It positively is Jeanette, and I'm sure I can manage a minute,"_ was her promise, more of a supposition. The woman clearly had no idea who she was talking to. _"How can I be of assistance? Directions, information, reservations…? No phone sex, though – I only get __that__ serious with a valid credit card number."_

"This is Nines Rodriguez. You feel like doing a favor for me?"

The fun and games screeched closed for a moment; he heard Voerman's absurdly grinning mouth lose its pep and snap shut. When she spoke again, it wasn't courtroom grave – but it _was_ a good deal quieter, as though worried someone might be leaning against her door with a shot glass to the polished oak. _"Nines Rodriguez?" _Jeanette asked, squinting heavy lashes. Apparently she wasn't loopy enough to completely lack a sense of caution. _"LA's own Free-State scourge. What a surprise! Of course I can spare a little time for old neighbors. But, hmm… I don't know about this 'favor' business. They generally call favors for Anarchs sedition from where I come from. And Sissy doesn't like me playing hardball with the grown-ups anymore." _The vampire sighed, sing-song air an attempt to cloak an earlier stumble. It rang of a front. His calling upset her, made the woman nervous; it was an uncertain variable, opening doors to very dangerous territory. _"And I DEFINITELY shouldn't be talking to YOU, mister."_

These sentiments genuinely bothered him, though minimizing and flirtations were Jeanette's form of politicking. Downtown's troubled Baron did not take kindly to minimization and he didn't much like being flirted with, either. Both felt like a joke was being made. The Brujah pushed any lingering irritation away and shifted his weight between feet. "Sedition for talking to me. That's funny. You know, I vaguely remember a time when the Voermans called Santa Monica Free-State." He noted it with nonchalance, but the underlying message was obvious.

Jeanette didn't bite yet. _"Sadly, our allegiances have changed since then,"_ she remarked, a condoling pat on the head. Nines balked. Talking to _him_ like that? Not likely – not unless she was sincerely trying to sound this evening out. The tramp had to have an angle. _'Crazy as all hell, but not dumb.' _Maybe her airheaded babe persona was an act; some women were like that, fashioning sexism and sexuality into not-so-very-covert weapons.

"Your sister's, or yours?" he asked, needling, giving Woeburne's advice a whirl. That drove a nail. She harrumphed, pouting.

"_No fair! Playing twin against twin. Dirty fighting if ever I've seen it."_

"Talk with me," Nines pressed. "What can it hurt?"

"_Besides potentially YOU? A Baron would not be very prudent to come skipping on into Santa Monica nowadays… especially not one named Nines Rodriguez. Seriously, Mr. Scourge: this can't be news. You've probably been clever enough to notice all the negative publicity we've had in our little beachfront castle lately. All those poor ickle' thin-bloods a few nights back. Just tragic! Oh, and…? Therese was Not Very Happy about you making a big Tonka truck mess on her pier last July,"_ Jeanette remembered, clicking tongue against sharp teeth. _'No shit.'_ Still, rubbing in Rodriguez's poor standing with their matriarch did nothing to deter him; neither did it exactly seem to send her running. The girl hadn't stopped talking. He scratched his beard and tried not to mouth off out-of-turn._ "And, wull'… to be just so brutally honest with you, Ninesy, I think if you showed your face around here, sister dear would shoot it right off."_

"That so? I'm not scared of some kiss-ass Junior Princess, thinks her name means shit in the major leagues. She can't do anything to me. And to tell you the truth, I'm frankly kinda' insulted you'd mention her when I called to talk to you."

"_You talk big game, Rodriguez – but if you tweak Sissy's nose, I'm the one who has to put up with her bitch-fit for the next month. And it is NO fun at all, take it from me. So, let's make sure we comprehend this crystal-clear: want to cut cards with me? It better be worth it. And _you_ better be worth it. Because, and you should know this ickle fact about me before we do any business: nothing makes Jeanette Voerman madder than a man who's all talk and no walk. Deliver. Because I really, __really__ don't look forward to the cover-up if things between us took a twist for worser,"_ the vampire swore.

"I didn't plan on a grand entrance. You got a backdoor, don't you?"

This won a dash of approval – the first firm note he'd detected since they began. She thought about it for another minute before measuring her chances and deeming them fair. _"I like the way you think, Brujah. Alrighty, then. We'll meet up for a coffee date so I can listen to your war song. But no bringing the bullyboys, and no cowboy gun-slinging unless I say so. Understand?"_

"I understand."

Jeanette's frown seesawed into a grin, raunchy perkiness returning. There was a persistent vibe of severity beneath, though – one he doubted would leave any time soon. She couldn't be absolutely sure that downtown's chief didn't intend to whack her or aim for ransom money – not unwise misgivings – but it was like they said: curiosity killed the sororicidal slut. _"Foxy Boxes across the street at 1:20, then. I'll leave a key under the mat for you. Don't be late or you'll hurt my feelings."_

Nines checked his watch. "I'll be there," he guaranteed, flipped the cell closed and slid it back into his jacket.

Newspaper folded under one arm, Rodriguez paid for the items, slid out a bell door, and worked his way to Santa Monica.

**III.**

The Brujah took one look at _Foxy Boxes_ three hours later – could think only _'shady ass expo house'_ – and decided to keep his Desert Eagle.

Maybe he was paranoid and maybe he was only practical, but that storage facility gave Nines chills in a bad way. The venue looked somewhat unassuming from where he'd parked outside _Brothers' Salvage_: a brick building with metal garage doors that opened onto sidewalk, lined by two murky windows, glass sporting prison bars behind their shine. There didn't appear to be any activity going on inside. Heavy manual locks kept merchandise safe from standard criminals; a street-side location provided plenty of convenience for laborers. Some sap's flatbed parked outside shielded Rodriguez from _The Asylum_ but this added coverage did little for his nerves. It could've been the trashy name and logo (standard _busty babe in neon_). It could've simply been the knowledge there was a manipulative Voerman sister slinking close at hand. But one thing came across very, very clear to the Anarch: there was no way in hellhe'd stroll into that dump without hardware at his side.

So Nines locked two nine-millimeter Jerichos in the dashboard compartment, pulled their big cousin from a holster, and tucked it safely inside the back of his belt. _'Day I stroll in to meet a Cam unarmed is the day I lose LA.' _Therese could've been listening in on that call, for all he knew, and the Brujah wasn't brazen enough to waltz through Santa Monica with nothing but a few threats and a smile. No backup and a weapons check? _'Eight shots says this whole thing is a set-up…'_

The side door was unlocked and there looked to be an overhead LED on, so he walked in.

_Foxy Boxes_ – prick twenty-somethings trying to be clever. True to its dumb name, though, the place was an oversized garage; it had been stacked floor-to-ceiling with duct-taped cardboard and slatted economy crates. A bolted office space housed key racks and file cabinets full of courier addresses, managerial desks currently unoccupied. Steel racks lining the walls held smaller parcels marked "FRAGILE." What else? Postage cartons, dust, darkness and foam packing peanuts. There were security camera warnings posted above every threshold, but Nines saw no actual tech, and guessed orange plaques amounted to little more than an anti-theft bluff. It smelled like spider spray in here. The corridor end opened into one echoing shipping area, angles he could not quite see past this tight, grey-painted passage… but someone had turned a bulb on. Motes tinkled in stale air. Those uncomfortable feelings refused to subside; he didn't want to go strutting through a rat-run hallway and towards that single bright spot for fear of ambush… but there were no other entrances, and doubling back meant giving up.

'_Safety before good manners.'_ Nines pulled out the handgun, mildly reassured by the weight of it resting within his palm. He edged farther down the dim corridor. His footsteps were quiet.

When Rodriguez stepped out into the hollow cargo area, he saw nothing at first – then whirled around at a squawk and nearly plugged a bullet directly through Jeanette's exposed white stomach.

"I _thought_ we went over this?" she snorted, standing with platform shoes dug shoulder-length and arms folded. The vampire was perched atop a large second-story outcropping, transport bins looming behind her and a flimsy guard rail between them. Windows backlit Voerman, making the wrinkled white t-shirt she wore ice blue, cobwebs clinging to indecent denim shorts. Muted headlight-glare from outside glanced off the belly button ring he would've shot off. She glared down at the Anarch – who, blinking with pistol-in-grip, apparently couldn't follow simple instructions. More specifically, the woman narrowed in on his weapon. Her mismatched eyes were surrounded by hardened makeup, yellow mane uncombed, scarlet mouth twisted into an unhappy snarl of grin. Girl reeked of instability. Beneath that trailer trash exterior bubbled a concentrated seed of wrongness, a body full of chaos and murder. There was a red smear between her incisors – one Nines couldn't tell between lipstick or dried blood. If she was stashing firearms, he couldn't figure out where… "You're starting off on the wrong foot, Brujah. First impressions are _so_ important, too, so I'll give you another chance. Empty it. And if you don't want to play nice, I'll lock this place down and call home."

"You're the one who scheduled a meeting in a death trap" would've been valid, but politics were more important than angry comebacks, and complied. Much as Rodriguez hated it, he saw no other options. The man held out his gun and opened its catch. She watched the magazine hit concrete and clank uselessly.

"Good boy!" Jeanette's aggressive smile relaxed when she saw he'd conform. The Santa Monican's look was a dangerous brand of zany and made fine hairs rise on his neck. Her victorious, nasal pitch also made him want to punch a wall… but as any decent clan newbie could tell you, there was _pissed_ and then there was _stupid_. He wasn't stupid. "Now be a pal and pitch it here, would you?"

She was trying to intimidate him – Nines could tell – had chosen this low-visibility locale and arranged it to maximize stress. Claustrophobic passageways leading to a yawning central chamber? Towers of boxes providing countless hiding spots, potential hazards and no sturdy cover? Creepy lighting? It was certainly not a combat zone any sensible general would choose. In a way, he admired the effort, though her tactical shrewdness did remarkably little to smooth his hackles. It was a sign to be wary. Downtown's chief supposed if this were an assassination, bombs would've sufficed – not to mention allowed for alibis, in the likely event Damsel showed up afterwards with a black dress and a chainsaw. She was probably just being careful, but fuck that. He wasn't scared. He picked up the dropped cartridge and lobbed to Voerman with a bit too much strength.

She watched it sail overhead with no reaction, bouncing off shatterproof glass. There was no move to retrieve the clip. Unfazed, _The Asylum_'s hostess sighed, plunked herself down with absolutely no modesty, and leant forward – legs swinging through the guard railing, elbows hanging over its top bar, chin propped on two stacked hands. All evidence to the contrary, she looked about seven. "Well, I appreciate all this cooperation… but obviously I didn't mean _that_, sweetie. You could always have more ammo," Jeanette whistled out.

"I don't."

"You _could_," she noted, a digging wince, a whisper any sibling of Therese must've known would gnarled Brujah temper into a very ugly knot. If he didn't get every piece of property back once this heart-to-heart was over…

Mood sinking from irritated to freezing, the Baron – much more gingerly, this time – tossed his pistol up. She caught it like a girl. He glowered at her with a cold flint stare.

Having defused him, Voerman returned to her inane, flitting self. She studied the void Eagle briefly, hefted, clicked its slide, then took mock-aim at him and squeezed the trigger. An imaginary bullet spun straight into the tiny space between Nines's dark, scowling eyebrows. "Pow," she said – one eye shut, pink tongue stuck out – and collapsed into witch cackles.

The Anarch did not find it amusing. Jeanette must have noticed, because she plopped his .50 onto her lap – but kept snickering. "Look at that face! Don't like being on the other end of the barrel, do we?"

It was hard not shouting. "I came here to discuss business," he gritted out – flat, low, devoid of fun. "If you're going to screw around, I withdraw my offer."

"Oh, Jesus and Joseph. Lighten up! Don't be such a big old Brujah sourpuss." The woman clucked her tongue, whining, disillusioned. Nevertheless, she set his pistol down beside her with a reserved _'clink.' _It idled there for the first half of conversation. Jeanette must've recognized that seducing him was useless; she was far more concerned with making sure the ex-Baron didn't bite her. "A little business doesn't automatically make us rivals. I swear, you are being so mean to me, Ninesy. After I forgave you for behaving badly, too – bringing guns to a first date. You sure know how to kill a budding relationship. My delicate sensibilities are in a twist! Incidentally, sweetheart, ask yourself: what would two little girls like us have to gain from killing you, Mr. Rodriguez?" A pause while she thought it over, casting wide, maniacal eyes upwards. Voerman's stare wasn't _right_. She bristled bad voodoo. "Besides Princehood from Sebastian LaCroix. But I don't have any interest in that, honey. I'm not Miss Therese. I'm a little more practical."

A mongoose smile in the low half-light; a pigtailed child who tore the heads off snakes.

"Now what did you want to talk about?" Jeanette asked. Her fingernails tapped the rusted bars.

"No. First we level. You clearly want insurance, and it's not unreasonable, but my attention is not something to risk on scare tactics," Nines warned. His ultimatum was a shut-down. "I agreed to meet on your turf; _that_ is your insurance. The details therein? No. We don't do this your way. We do this my way. Lights on. Doors locked. Now."

"Is this really how you want to start things off between us? _Hmph_. Fine, then." She stood up, about-faced. A short stroll to the wall-side control panel, and aluminum scraped every open window shut. Metal scratching concrete produced horrible sounds – they made the Brujah skitter in his skin. Streetlamps disappeared behind sheets; reflective surfaces chased car blinkers away; auxiliary doors sealed tightly behind flat layers of tin. They were sunk in complete darkness for a moment as the screeching stopped. Then, one switch flipped – one button-push – and all was engulfed in a blinding, powerful flash. Safety overheads buzzed awake. Nines was left squinting, vision struggling to adjust; in one fierce hum, he had been washed as colorless as everything around them: crates, shelves, the ladder rungs that led to where Voerman lorded over her sad little throne room. Initiating the power had also stirred this storehouse's cooling system; ceiling fans turned with slow, massive, bladelike sweeps in stagnant air.

She returned to her seat with shrunken pupils and slight annoyance. There was no one else in this depot. They were alone.

"Better?" the girl asked, flippant and sneering. Her shoes were dangling again. You could barely see that powdered, moonstruck face.

"Better," he said – through the bleach that made his eyes into steamed iron. "Let's talk."

Scoffs broke Junior's insolent façade, but a testament to her fortitude or her guts, she had not abandoned their midnight meeting. "Well, I'm not coming down! Lucky for you, I'll stay – because being bright enough to know kissing Sissy's a waste of time makes me happy. But no cheek-to-cheek, hound dog. You can stay right there and bark up my tree."

Rodriguez didn't miss his chance. He refused to move, shoving shadowy corners and cold flares clear out of mind. "You want the real reason I'm paying you a visit? Management. This city has got a major security problem and I could use some help with it. Now, we're meeting pretty late in the game. I realize," he said. "I'm sorry for that; before tonight, your sister's been calling all the shots around here and she's below my notice. But if you know who I am, you also know I don't give a damn about Camarilla agency – and dubbing yourself _boss_ doesn't make suits into leaders. Therese can say whatever she wants. She's a suit." A flimsy sort-of-grin. "I'm hoping you're the leader."

"Well, no _duh_, bubs. All you have to do is ask around a bit to get votes on that. Jyhad is a Kindred popularity contest, and – if you didn't guess – I was a prom queen. Take paperwork out of this equation, _The Asylum_ is definitely my club, and Santa Monica might as well be my playing field."

"And if you want me to make that happen for you in a more official sense, I can," the spokesman told her. It was a political bribe; that didn't make the claim an untruth. He led her steadily towards his main items. "But I will, of course, need your allegiance and your attention beforehand. Whatever she called it, your sister has always run her district like a Prince. She micromanages, throws money at people and pretends papers makes authority. I'm here to tell you that's hot air. The way things stand in this town, it's not ready to be a bona fide Anarch State, and I need to know you can keep a hold of it when and _if_ that happens."

Voerman Junior looked offended by these doubts, because her calves stopped their juvenile springing to-and-fro. "I've got just as much of a hold on our home as she does."

Bingo. _That_ was the arrogance he'd been fishing for. Nines snorted, cocking a brow, and redistributed weight back on one boot heel. His folded arms were a skeptical challenge. "Yeah? Well, you're doing a shit job of it. I don't care who the fuck is in charge, Jeanette. What I care about is fortifications, protection of our species – and it is _your_ responsibility as Princes or Barons to keep this Domain Sabbat-free. They've got raids on your beaches; they've got warehouses clinging on you like barnacles," the Brujah barked, a hand cutting aggressively west. "If you don't do something– not tomorrow, not next week, not when you get around to it; _now_ – they'll weed so deep into your infrastructure that the place will crumble, whether I sit you or Therese up as top-kick. Shit needs to get done around here, because it sure as fuck is not being taken care of now. Do you understand?"

"I heard they almost bumped that cute Brit few nights ago," she snickered, simpering, subject-changing. Fingers tugged merrily at the frayed end of one pigtail. Gold strands twirled around a pointer. The fan rolled.

He grunted, molars grinding. Her apathy irked him – or was it the fluffiness with which she spoke? A minute later, Voerman crawled up and wandered to the boarded windows behind her, poking about until she discovered his lost magazine. He ended up snarling at her backside. "Yeah? You hear they tried to frame me for it? That never would have happened when Los Angeles was under my thumb. Shovelheads got no business scheming like that – and they _wouldn't_ be able to were either of you doing your jobs. I'm not happy. And when I'm not happy, there's a problem."

Jeanette, facing away from him, puffed out a very large and embittered sigh.

The vampire rolled her shoulders, bridge wrinkling when she turned about, answering these accusations with a snubbed laugh. Red nails sunk crossly into bare hipbones. That comment burned her – suggested impotence. She padded back, sitting herself down, selecting his Eagle with its cartridge in her other hand. Rubber soles panged against cement walls with new energy. "Are you _scolding_ me, honey? Ah-heh. That's cute." Inexperienced digits fiddled with it until they managed to find the release. Santa Monica's wannabe Baroness loaded it with an awkward bump of her palm heel. "A change of pace. And I can play meek and submissive once in a while, Ninesy." Canines flashed as the teasing note dropped into a flat-out warning: "But there's a fine line between dominating and _pushy_, Brujah. You might want to take one or two steps back from it if you want to do business with me."

"You might want to put on a coat if you had any idea how many of those bloodsuckers are roaming your streets. You're not fighters; I don't expect riot squads. I'm not asking you to smoke them out yourselves. But I damn well do expect you to clean this shithole up one way or another. And listen when I say this: it is very wise to be my friend, Jeanette," Rodriguez shot back. She observed him observe her explore the loaded handgun and pouted at his lack of reaction. "Now, you let me and my people in under that bitch's radar – quietly – and we'll take care of the problem for you. We defend our own; that includes soldiers and arsenal access. Hell. You sign with me, and I will personally make sure you have everything you need to keep order in and keep the Cam out." (It was a generous proposal – far more provisions than she had direct access to now, even with club revenue and Nosferatu information feeds.) "But let's be completely clear. The question here isn't if you want Santa Monica to go Free-State. I will drag it there one day soon with or without your approval. The question is where you want to be standing when that happens."

"That a threat?" she bawked, and Nines mentally stumbled at hearing his own words to London repeated for the second time tonight. He did not want to make an enemy. Crazy she may be, but this hellcat did not sit around cutely licking her claws – she could conceivably cause problems for them – bloody the water with intimate connections to powerful Kindred. Tangle with sewer rats, and one's stakes were poor, no matter how hard you happened to hit. Still, he didn't flinch. His hands folded into fists. He showed her his teeth. _Because you don't show your belly to a crocodile._

"Jeanette, darlin', that is a _promise_."

They paused, mutually disturbed.

Voerman made a face, but tucked both pale knees anxiously back through the beams. His weapon was stowed in a purple plastic belt. He had to wonder if it felt ashamed, but might've enjoyed seeing that nympho shoot herself in the foot. Ah, well – wishful thinking. "Fine," she proclaimed, whipped her nose airborne, and harrumphed. The girl folded long legs Indian-style, adjusting unused blouse buttons. "I'll dance to your war drums for a while, Comandante. I'll even believe you can deliver what you say. But I do have one teensy-tiny condition. When you superheroes finally take over this show, I want your very special guarantee: our dreary old surfside stays with me. And all that it implies." A malicious, carnivorous wink. Her intentions were not amiss to him. 'It' implied Therese. "Don't swear so unless you mean it, though. This is serious. Break my heart, Brujah, and I will break more than just your toys."

"I have no intentions of stepping between you and your claims. When I'm through with LA, you turn Santa Monica inside-out for all I care. And you can deal with your sister however you please."

She squealed gleefully, standing, clapping her hands together after an exaggerated spine stretch. The gesture was almost obscene. Its suddenness and vivacity spooked Nines for a moment, made him jump embarrassingly after so many somber conditions exchanged. No comment came about the sudden shift. Flamboyance paved over whatever worries Jeanette had expressed – artificialness and false grins stamping severity – but the confidence was considerably thinner than usual. Even so, she was pleased. "Well, then. Looks like you have yourself an accomplice, Mr. Scourge. I'll talk to Bertram tonight about finding a willing stooge and a safe route in… consider that yucky little warehouse ash," she chirped. "But tell your boys to tip-toe when you roll through town – and call me sometime, _hmm_? Can't be very good friends if I don't know your wish-lists. After all, things change. Tonight you need astrolite tucked away in a Fedex bag. Who knows what you'll need tomorrow?"

Voerman leapt off the ledge in a tidy cat pounce, didn't bother fixing her hair or disheveled clothes, and smiled. She thrust her hand out. It smelled like conditioner and was covered with shipping soot, but he clasped it anyway. Plastic nail tips nipped the back of his palm. "All right," Nines said, forcing a good-natured smile.

Jeanette returned his pistol.

"And someday when we're not on the cusp of a bloody revolution, you'll have to show me why you _really_ got that nickname."

Well, she caught like a girl. But at least she shook like a man.

**IV.**

The Anarch had probably never been less irritated to call Serena Woeburne.

"Down set," he said simply when she answered, no need to stall, knowing London would demanded intel for every second she was kept waiting. The pickup truck ducked through an overpass and wheeled out of Santa Monica. Rodriguez hadn't dared dig around for his phone until outside the Voermans' turf, still not fully convinced they didn't have some sort of violent finale planned for him. That suburb was a giant bear trap – all steel teeth, rust and faulty mechanics. He wasn't looking forward to conducting business there. Schemes were schemes, though… and now there remained only one last component before downtown's leading Brujah would stamp it a success. "Are you in?"

She _ugh_ed.

_"Please _spare _me the details." _Nines smiled. _"As for 'in,' I suppose your plan – and I use that word charitably – is feasible. I'll take care of the trust issue. And there's no need to breathe down my neck, so I'd appreciate some space – yes? While we're not Nosferatu, I assure you: that woman won't turn a trick without me knowing about it," _Woeburne swore. The grate of her hyper-precise consonants was a welcome relief after an evening of trading lisping threats with Jeanette. Still annoying as shit, but in a different sense. London was predictable. _"I likely won't be in touch for a few days. Believe it or not, I have other things keeping me busy than dealing with you. But it will be done." _

When it came to Jyhad, Predictable Bitch beat Crazy Bitch any day of the week.

_"Just give me two nights," _she ordered, blew past the 'goodbye,' and hung up.


	64. Natural Selection

**Natural Selection**

The girl was pressed into a brick wall, still covered in sand.

Two full days had passed since the incident on Santa Monica beach – sun rise and set – though this stray had yet to run home. Lily didn't quite believe she had ever left the mortised protection of Knox's body. Dampness and dirt matted itself into navy sweater sleeves; ragged tufts of orange hair glued themselves to the gaunt face. Something stung around her ribcage like a hairline fracture. She didn't really notice it anymore.

As the cards had fallen, there was no leeway to feel her old, sticking socks; no opportunity to be bothered by dried mud on jean knees. Lily scrubbed her mouth with a palm heel. Nearly forty-eight hours since she'd eaten last, and the young woman's stomach did not grumble – it hurt. Brief, stabbing contractions amplified to an urgent and unvarying simmer. Her tongue tasted sour and wet, cheeks sunken, joints gummy. The tender insides of her nostrils cracked. Her eyeballs stung. Hearing had been replaced with a constant, squeamish pulse beat, snare drums rattling against skull bones, a dull and deafening echo. It had all deteriorated so fast. It was frightening how fast. She dug one elbow against her gut in a half-cocked effort to distract that persistent ache.

Lily was standing in the grim light outside that freaky little goth joint's back door, insides parched, trying not to quake. She watched pedestrians meander the streets adjacent. And she waited – for a straggler, a lucky break, a sign – anything.

The vampire wondered tangentially if this is what junkies dealt with, slumped over a ragged cot in some halfway house stripped of syringes, angel dust, prescription drugs. Harris grimaced. Wasn't that an accurate description? Yes, and more than the person she had once been would admit. Though comparing undeath to something so human consoled her a bit, it was hollow; ideological comforts did nothing to ease this wasting away. Something burbled just beneath protruding ribs. She badly needed to feed, but the lack of blood bogged her miscreated little body down, movements at once hyperactive and sluggish. Erratic throbs pinballed to and fro between temples. They worsened by the hour and made _The Asylum_'s back lot look like a carnival house. Sleep deprivation did not improve her state, either; Lily had been burrowing in a rotted-out cargo train car just outside _Brothers' Salvage_ for the past two evenings. She rested scantily and spent most of the daylight balled up under a length of peach Sherwin-Williams carpet. Tin panels kept sunrays out of safe corners and the .45 parked within arm's reach kept her sane.

The Caitiff clasped both arms tighter, putting a stop to this shivering.

A man was walking down her dark alley.

Saliva pooled beneath the girl's tongue immediately. Her hands began to bead sweat in cotton-blend pockets. She felt like an escaped zoo creature – hackles rising in a dorsal along her back, spine twisting, wrists clammy. Hunger was the only thing that had driven her out, bleary-eyed in a dead city; it was oblivious wandering propelled by subconscious want. He was drunk – a partygoer – stumbling behind an inconspicuous dumpster to relieve himself. Greasy black hair and colorless skin did not mask the meaty scent; he was a prey animal.

Lily's teeth started to grind. It was a bad turn of phrase but they _itched _in a literal and maddening sense; the woman's canines shouted to be sunk into something, her gums too cold and lifeless to satisfy. He wore an unbuttoned top that threw blue veins into sharp relief. A hand flattened itself against the wall to steady himself; buttons glared through payphone stall plastic, his face a fuzzy unimportance shared by ten thousand other nameless kine. The human did not smell very pleasing. He reeked of booze, cigarettes and acidic armpits, actually. None of that mattered. Right now, this smashed club-hopper taking a curbside piss was the most appetizing thing in her world. She felt like radio static. She was panting.

Unable to think, Lily had abandoned the shadowy nook and was shuffling steadily up behind him when something stopped her like a bomb siren.

She saw Nines Rodriguez.

He was leaving the nearby shipping depot, moving at a brisk lope down empty sidewalk, scowling. There lingered no calmness or friendly patience about him, no audiences to impress. The Brujah was tense and focused, looking angry across Fifth Street. This suspicious, hard-edged figure with the fast walk and inhospitable expression almost didn't look like the easy-going Angeleno she'd known, but it was unmistakably him. Mean silver eyes glinted beneath dark hair. He stalked to the intersection and glanced both ways before lunging through it and disappearing into anonymity. He didn't notice her.

The thin-blood pressed against a wall and breathed out, relieved not to have been seen. Her shins burnt. Her eyelids crinkled uncomfortably. She tried to swallow, air caught by knots that tightened painfully in Lily's throat. There wasn't any time to worry about what the Anarch spokesman had been doing poking around Santa Monica. She'd spotted him for all of fifteen seconds – no longer.

By the time it occurred to Harris to mind her dinner, the drunk was already staggering back inside.

She cursed, suddenly unable to stomach it all, and hurried out of the alleyway before those bricks closed in around her. Cold air sunk deeply into starchy shirt fabric. Before the girl could process where she was going, Lily found herself in the bare light of _Surfside Diner_, squinting at tacky red upholstery and checkered tile. It was stagnant in these depressing hours of morning. Crunchy black bug carcasses lined the windowsills, left over from midday sun, and a moth was plinking stupidly into lamp shades. Orange cleaner made the smell of lunchmeat sandwiches revolting. There was a wilting matron in what looked to be her own floral nightgown tipping away at the front register; there was a group of tittering female surfers downing decaf in a booth. The neonate realized she was hovering slack in this restaurant's door only when one of them – a chlorine-greened blonde – glanced up. It brought the present jarring back. She gulped and shuffled forward, grabbing a stool and scooting miserably up to the farthest corner of bar.

The solitary waiter, a wisp of a man, forced his best cheerful smile and asked for her order. He thought she was a crackhead; Lily could tell. The vampire heard herself request water and a BLT. She didn't know why – appearances, maybe; maybe habit. He brought her overcooked bacon and refrigerated lettuce on stale wheat. Harris shoved crust crumbs about plate edges, dabbing at the beads of condensation that gathered along dingy glass. She tucked five crumpled dollars beneath it. She looked to the group of women, laughing loudly, teeth shining under outdated lamps. She stared through milkshake stains and straight to the floor. It seemed miles away.

Something that felt like her heart was pounding in Lily's throat.

'_How did I get here?'_

She was talking about Los Angeles; she was talking about college; she was talking about this shitty diner. More than anything, the girl meant undeath. Her life had amounted to nothing but the results of and compensation for stupidity since leaving Oregon – a montage of poor choices, bad judgment, falsely-placed confidence. There were mistakes and there were the methods taken to recover from them. She could have blamed Nines for ending up here, sure, but the thin-blood didn't want to. She'd tried to blame Rolf a hundred times; each attempt offered only the bitterest consolation. They were too large to directly bring about these disasters, directly tailored to her; she was too small to truly catch their notice. The misfortunes that had come Lily's way were like loose moon rocks, dangers kicked askew by planet orbits. When one threw a stone to knock down a hornet's nest, a few unfortunate hornets were bound to absorb the blow. It was easier to blame herself.

A brunette slopped lukewarm java onto a blonde. The victim squawked, pawed at wet swim trunks, then retaliated by dumping a sugar packs onto her attacker's head. Giggles and half-sincere snorts of "bitch!" cracked the silence.

Lily swallowed. She was so painfully jealous of those girls.

There was a sore patch growing for every time she felt Knox's name in her mouth. She wouldn't allow herself to think about him – not right now; especially not wound in tight circles on _food_ – but occasionally discovered the ghoul trying to crawl up her throat. He had been one more casualty in a long line of blunders that spanned from packing her bags for the West Coast to sitting here tonight, legs dangling. Trusting Harrington when she shouldn'tve, only to doubt him when it mattered; double-crossing Ms. Woeburne; thinking men like Rolf or Rodriguez would ever genuinely _care_ about anyone; killing E. – who did genuinely care – bringing him into a different world, only to abandon her Childe because of some pretty, hateful words. All of them dead – God, _all_ of them – and would Lily have learned her lesson? She hoped so.

The expository made her sick. Harris scraped fingertips over yellow cheekbones. There was a stranger sitting several stools over, hunched forward on elaborate leather arm bands, face skeletal and metallic. He had been tossing narrow glimpses in the thin-blood's direction since she'd entered, but now Lily noticed the character's toneless eyes boring at her intently. Brackish pupils burned in pink, wrinkled sockets; fiery hair clashed with washed-out skin and thin lips. Unease descended. Images of brooding in _Asp Hole_ and meeting a certain gold-eyed kid were heartrending, frighteningly familiar. She was suddenly terrified he might speak to her. The man stared for a full minute until the woman couldn't take it anymore and slipped off her seat, left knee twitching, falling into and finally through _Surfside Diner_'s door.

She sucked down a chilly breath of California night that filled her belly. It did nothing to satiate the girl's hunger, but here beneath these streetlights, physical comforts were few. Lily held it as long as she could; exhaling hurt. Everything else was beginning to hurt, too. Maybe she should have followed Nines. There were no delusions tinkling about her head that LA's Anarchs might be interested in inducting some Caitiff whelp (and they never had been); still, it was possible someone at _The Last Round_ would be charitable enough to lend a drink. She'd served her purposes. Rodriguez wasn't concerned with 'Slim' anymore – but surely he wouldn't let her go starving? Could she approach him? Would he even remember her –m oved on to a new unwitting fledgling, a child desperate for friends and ignorant to their own convenient political connections? Scurrying up and saying the Brujah's name seemed impossible.

No, Lily couldn't do it. Not that any of this mattered – he, and the flitting chance, were long gone.

Standing on the pavement, Harris looked at her watch. What she read there destroyed any remaining sense of time. Three hours had somehow passed in that dismal restaurant; it felt like twenty minutes. The thin-blood considered crossing back towards Voerman's thrumming nightclub and soliciting there. She had never fed in public eye, but desperate times and a sobering thought pushed its way into reality. One had to wonder how many innocent make-out sessions they'd witnessed in life were actually the maneuverings of peckish Kindred. This filled her with a premature burst of optimism. Surrounded by undergraduates and stoners, it couldn't be too difficult…

Weak hopes squealed to a halt. There – lurking beyond the steady stream of prostitutes, enough to scare away all her notions of sustenance – was Damsel.

Lily didn't stall. She couldn't think it through seriously enough to bow out for a second moment of cowardice that evening. The Den Mother was standing shadily on a busy curb, zaftig frame dwarfed by a full knapsack, scarlet mane radiating around her anxious face. Its fringes stuck out from beneath a black hood, badly-combed; there were sweater cuffs poking from leather jacket sleeves. Her expression was edgy and ill at ease. Troubled green eyes didn't bother themselves with searching the dim coffeehouse stoops or tourist shops; they were preoccupied by alleys, underpass scans, toes shying away from suspicious traffic. The fledgling wondered what business she had slinking through this suburb just a handbreadth behind her captain. She wondered what was stuffed in that overloaded backpack. Harris wasn't naïve enough to doubt these two events were related; even from her short few weeks running with their gang, it became obvious this rancorous Anarchs did little without first consulting Nines. That vermillion mouth was grimacing, uncertain in new territory. Fingers fisted around her bag straps. Weight shifted between tiny sneakered feet. The Brujah appeared to be waiting on someone – or something – a flashed signal or passed token. Alone, without any comrades to boss around, she looked less like a brickhouse; considerable spitfire, barked orders and stubbornness were lost.

A dizzying mix of hunger, fatigue and desperation for social contact compelled Lily. Good sense slipped through her fingers and plopped onto the sidewalk. She left it lying, discarded, and stumbled up to her old friend in amazement.

The thin-blood must have looked like shit – filthy, shuddering and all ablur. She stared, managing an open-mouthed smile. It felt incredibly idiotic. Damsel had the gall to squint as though she didn't recognize her. Lily didn't know what to say.

Finally: "…_kid_?" the Brujah asked, nostrils crinkling, lips curling lopsidedly as though she'd just downed a tumbler of cough syrup. Her disgust made Lily inanely happy. It meant acknowledgment. Nothing came out of the youngling's throat but a relieved puff, awkward against concrete and all these passing cars, so she waited eagerly for her to speak again. "You? What the-? Hell are you doing here?" These questions were not very enthusiastic, but they seemed somewhat astounded. She had clearly not expected to ever run into this mongrel again. (Not alive, at least. Harris didn't mind.)

It scared her, though, how much she really did _sound_ like a jawed-up addict. All this prompting made Lily's withered vocal chords remember how to speak. Words fell out like a dumped-over toy box. "I don't know. I really don't know. I'm not doing anything here. I just- you know. Ended up. You know? God. I'm so glad to see you. I can't even… This place, I mean. It's fucked. It's been crazy. It's just so good to see you. How…?"

She'd been about to ask _"How are you?"_ but there was a quiet kick in the Caitiff's gut. Damsel was not reciprocating. She stared widely at their old pity-case, blinking sharply, fidgeting from discomfort and a greater sense of nervousness. Crimson itched at her forehead and the Anarch raked it away, unable to stand still. Slim's attention was not desirable… especially not tonight. She didn't make eye contact. She was looking for an exit.

But Lily kept talking because she didn't know what else to do. The Childe didn't have any real idea of how loud her voice grew or that she _buzzed_ with bodily distress, side-effects of excitement and worry. Bystanders were beginning to cast odd glances and avoid their patch of side-street, awkward. It probably seemed like a drug deal. "Things've been hard. LA was really… hard." (There was no other way to describe the past few months leaping to her muddled mind.) "I really, um. I really miss you. It's been a while. I miss seeing everyone. Haven't been doing so hot. On your own in this city, and all – takes some getting used to. It's just better when you have, you know. People. Hey! I saw-" But the thin-blood thought twice about revealing that she'd just witnessed Nines Rodriguez come prowling out of _Foxy Boxes_ with a deadly-serious look and AGENDA written all over his face. "Uh. How's everybody? I was hoping maybe I could – just since it's been so long, right? – come by sometime. For a minute or two. Say hi."

Damsel stiffened, throwing another keyed-up glimpse around the dark lane. She was careful to keep away from overhead lights and refused to meet Lily's optimism. Incremental footsteps augmented the distance between them. "Look, it's not a good time."

"Ok, well – that's fine," the neonate said, shrugging. She was unconscious of how much these stuttering attempts at friendship sounded like Knox Harrington. "When is a good time? I don't have, you know, a lot to do. I can come whenever."

"I don't know. Listen, I'm busy. This is gonna' have to wait."

"Do you need help?" she offered, hunched, swallowing.

Damsel's uncomfortable wince turned towards a snarl. "_Look_. You're not getting it, kid. This isn't your business. You don't have any business with us, OK? I've got stuff to do here and you're gonna' fuck it up with all that shaking and shit. Beat it."

This answer should've stung Lily, even knowing what _The Last Round_ was – but she'd been too dulled for emotional blisters at this point. Her only response was a dumb, slack-jawed stare. She took one step backwards. It didn't satisfy the Den Mother, whose arm swiped irritably in Harris's direction. "Are you deaf?" she growled, pointing towards the beach parking garage for extra encouragement. There was a strange, insecure shame on her face. The resentment felt forced. But this didn't cloud Damsel's demands – she meant _fuck off_. "I said get out of here! Damn it. Fucking fledglings."

Full of sulk, the young Brujah shoved both hands into her pockets and turned very fixedly away, disengaging. Their alley's stillness was blown. Compromised and a bit guilty, she made to stomp off towards the main city block.

The thin-blood was lost – so she followed her onto a square of sidewalk, lagging behind. Those strong, stocky shoulders were hiked up to the pint-sized Anarch's ears. Bright eyes glowered vigorously downwards. She didn't slow up when the Caitiff called out – merely walked faster. Their pace had increased almost to a canter now. Lily was about to start begging when the stoplight blinked green, traffic resumed, and Damsel skidded to a halt mid-step.

"Shit," the vampire spat, sank in both heels, and – overstuffed backpack whipping her around – tore past Harris, sprinting back down their murky lane. She stopped for nothing. This sudden dash made her hood fall off, and Lily blinked, watching the lava head bob behind a corner of _Megahertz Tech_ before it disappeared.

Reeling, she pressed her lanky legs together, exhaled, and took one step backwards into the yellow glow of an intersection streetlight. The air was cool. It smelled like beer and dancing. Cars rushed a foot behind her.

She sighed.

Then something that felt like a steel hook thrust itself around Lily's neck and pulled her into burlap darkness.

She never saw the white van.

She was gone.


	65. Civil Procedure

**Civil Procedure**

The politicians of Los Angeles are a worrisome bunch.

"_Malingering mollycoddles,"_ Sebastian would've added, a mutter shortly after the last civil function, jabs dealt in private. Serena said nothing to these small insults. She knew, in the way of chief's daughters and pet advisors, that her Sire was not asking for commentary with his occasional scathing remark. Rather than nod or joke or chuckle nervously at Mr. LaCroix's backstage rants, she acted the wiser accomplice; young Seneschals were not meant to grandly link arms (and aims) with their masters, but to fill silent, loyal supporting roles. So Ms. Woeburne said nothing – the Childe would listen, catalogue, forbear. She would sit straight in conference rooms, mahogany on marble; she would watch secretaries record minutes from smoking lounges lined with brown leather and black carpet. Most importantly, Serena observed. The Ventrue in her made notes of every dynamic, every taut look, every charged pause that said more than its parties ought.

"_I suppose it would be unreasonable to ask for an ounce of ambition amongst my peers. Unfortunately, Serena, we have little choice in this matter; satiating fearful politicians has been the burden of leaders since long before either you or I were born. They are what they are, I am afraid. And so must we be."_

The reason for his disdain was no well-kept secret. He resented pandering to Primogen, both for their antique sense of decorum and their paranoia, yet olden speakers couldn't safely be ignored. And it was not only Elders Mr. LaCroix strove to calm; he also withstood Therese Voerman's petitions from Santa Monica, Nosferatu babble roundabout Hollywood, and most recently Mira's sycophantic gropings for cabinet recognition. It was a cascade that could not be dammed. A Prince was duty-bound to address his Domain's predicaments (at least when they were voiced by politically significant people), and any good Childe must cater to whatever needs that duty generates.

Primogen anxieties ranged from petty, personal stakes made over trespasses or feuds to city-wide issues. Few were remarkable – the standard side-stepping, backroom deals and suspicions fundamental to Kindred existence – but their volume had doubled since the Giovanni alliance. They piled one atop the other, a relentless swarm of inconveniences, inconsistencies, troubles and nail-biting power-players with bones to pick and precious little patience. They were dogfish snapping bites. One Prince, even one as acquisitive and dictatorial as Sebastian LaCroix, could not expect to satisfy them all.

But, of course, that was the reason why Princes had Seneschals.

Tonight, Serena was not humoring her Sire, but a hall full of complaints he could not be bothered with. She stood in Conference Room Six with a very neat suit and dusky hair rigid against the collar of her shirt. Grey lapels beneath white light, vacant nods, clear eyes, fingernails cut – she is a friendly neighborhood officer, ineffective but approachable. The politicians around her bleed into uniform drone. Sebastian won't trust Childer who have failed him to finagle with true Camarilla powers, but they're very useful dead ends for these well-dressed buzzards and the paltry ploys scavenged by them.

It was hard combing for details inside all this stagnant argumentation. There were high-intensity debates in Los Angeles most nights, but even the best ultimately turned circular, ending unsolved where each began. There were unhappy speakers with bad manners. These people seated before the Seneschal were made of shoe polish, mousse, dry cleaning and etiquettes of many eras turned rude by fear. They were disgruntled nobles swarming a small space – blanched carpet, crimson desk chairs, threatening black table the centerpiece of a spotless chamber that smelled like corporate-issue plastic. Not a solitary ring stain marred a single inch of woodwork. It was the same vacuum-sealed meeting area she'd slumped into her first night in LA, Ms. Woeburne noticed halfway through this false seminar – pen to paper, shoulder pads, cold air, back towards a softly-shut door. Her eyebrows slanted with the everyday surprise of coincidence. Her face was otherwise blank and sharp. These were the two expressions of good guard dogs: trained to be still, ready to nip and yap for their masters at the squeak of a gate.

Stewarding politicians' talks was quieter business than stonewalling Anarch appeals in Nocturne; it was a hundred times more complex.

"I believe you had something to say in that regard, Ms. Greene. You've been waiting patiently," the Seneschal noted, as though anyone in this group needed her praise or approval. "Please go ahead."

Serena always suffered a bit of awkwardness at these gatherings. It was a tension soaked up – in mouth, through brain, down spine – pinching shoulders and twisting nerves like a pull-string doll. Funny comparison, because her predictable, programmed responses might as well have been an answerphone on replay. She would wait there before them (wait _upon_ them) as Sebastian spoke – or, on nights like tonight, when he could not be inconvenienced – a symbolic usher, tone as straight-laced as her stance. This was all part of a Seneschal's performance. The Prince's token efforts at following convention were foreseeable – but that did not mean anyone was required to like it.

No one takes a pet of Sebastian LaCroix – his imported congressional aide – seriously. They find her youth and presence mildly offensive. It is not enough to genuinely upset any of LA's council; Primogen expect their magistrates to elect weak loyalists, for what better way to ensure your motions always have support? But these elder voices certainly do not appreciate yes-men Childer in their courtrooms, and have made that opinion clear with how little mind they pay Ms. Woeburne.

The Gangrel at their table's head, tonight's most senior attendee, settled forward and sighed in that blasé way of hers. Black eyes with carnivore pupils squared the room with their frank look. Goldenrod hair, never pinned or twisted, hung long and around both shoulders. She did not dress herself up in cashmere or airs. She was a straightforward personality, and did not care. "If you're not going to cull Caitiff, fine – but realize that someone else will," Rozalin began, a tiredness about her cynical voice, high notes sunken with decades of lassitude and orators like Mr. LaCroix. She wore a button-down blue shirt made of crushed velvet and wrinkles. "Because vigilantism is out-of-date these days, I'd say it's something Domain administration should handle. Local responsibility or appeals to downtown – the means don't concern me. It's a detail for Ventrue. But if the administrator-in-question doesn't handle this problem consistently, then they'll end up like Santa Monica, over there… dealing with bloody beachfronts and mad about it."

Two-bit bickering, irrelevant jeers, stabs passed down the pecking order from one kicked beast to another… all were unfortunate asides to Kindred interaction. Serena's lip began to curl. Most of the time, she was content to stand back and let them snivel at each other. Like hateful relatives at reunion, they left satisfactorily angry, distracted by insinuations, and with full stomachs. Then each would stomp back to his or her corner of city and let everyone be for a time. Or, at least, until next week.

Therese Voerman flashed an irritated look three seats to the left, but drew it inward. "You aren't blaming me for the actions of madmen and mongrels, Rozalin," the vampire said, self-assurance on a sigh, glasses perched back atop layers of gold. Her yellow knot was as vibrant and artificial as a school bus. It offset the sick pastel of undeath and colorless coat sleeves in contrast that overcompensated. Santa Monica's Prince-hopeful was close to Serena in age; in practice, she was a condescending, wary, repurposed Baron with no love for fidelity or marches. There was negative trust in the prim, cleanly way this woman sat; brutality to her coldness; malicious edges to business in that surfside suburb. Ventrue, undoubtedly, but of a different tang than the Seneschal's: first-name arrogance over by-the-book formality, perilous curves to Woeburne's razor squares. Something serpentine lingered about her. Voerman's meandering, sinister voice was just nasal enough to thorn.

"Blaming you? No," was all Greene said – in that frank, easy tone – and what she _didn't_ say implied much worse. Therese peered narrowly at her until the strange feeling passed.

Serena waited for a moment in which no-one-was-looking-this-way to rub her temples.

"I actually have a concern." It was Ms. Giovanni who interrupted their sulking contest (and Woeburne's headache), one finger tentatively raised. _Actually_. That fluff word was the brand of insecure speakers and immaturity; Mira had a chronic condition of overusing it. Actually, actually, _actually_. Serena massaged harder.

"Go on," the Seneschal said. At least this one waited on her consent.

"If Sabbat are behind the crime hike in Santa Monica – and I think we've pretty well decided 'yes' on that – maybe we should be taking about pooling our resources. Things are a little remote where I am. The estate is next to impenetrable; thieves I'm not concerned about. But my family—"

"Would love that, I'm sure." Ms. Voerman's painted eyebrow forked impossibly, insultingly high. They were the most expressive features she had.

A titter echoed beside Rozalin. "Oh, wouldn't they, indeed?" laughed Claudia Fairholm – liking the cruel joke too much, as she made it a point to do. The Toreador was glamorous with no effort. She glistened like a sepia photo brought to life in a lioness, fashionable without falsity, more life than the dead ought to contain. Houndstooth cut geometrics around delicate gestures and brown skin, bare ankles. She wore a black cloche over blacker hair, trimmed raven feathers tucked under soft fabric, red ribbon on wrist and red clutch in hand. You never saw her without gloves. Auburn eyes made her appear fawnish and flighty beneath thick lashes. Sharp teeth grinned openly, conscious of her beauty and the respect it deserved. "Los Angeles in bed with the Italians! Now there's a headline for the next newsletter. I can only imagine what New York would start murmuring about us."

Rozalin sniggered under her breath at this. Clan Toreador's local representative was an intense contrast with the plainclothes, combed-locks appeal of Primogen Greene, who was both her closest ally and (some guessed) almost-friend. It was an informal yet powerful backroom alliance. Their relationship could be spoiled, no doubt, but until then all the secret-trading and private talks stood to make life difficult for a Ventrue Prince.

Fairholm always thought of talking to Isaac Abrams as stooping, though – and for that, Serena admitted, she had to feel a little affection for her.

The Giovanni, crunched in a corner even less glorious than Ms. Woeburne's, bristled as much as she dared. Her rosewood mane was deliberately tousled but now looked messier than it ever had chic. Those black hoops were like bell weights as they clinked at either side of a long throat. Short haircut, short dress, short legs clambering up a very tall ladder – all these tokens of modernity marked a child among monsters. "Actually, we are more than willing to share our wealth if it means more security for all," the young lady pressed, a bit more pressure behind defensive lines. Forked fingers swept through thick curlets, dyed dark, at the back of her neck. "I may be a newcomer. But I'm a full participant in this community, and I intend to make that clear."

"I'm not suggesting you haven't met the demands placed upon you. I don't make a habit of 'suggesting,' Mira," Therese noted briskly. "I merely think we could stand to revisit that event, and the – how did you put it to us? – 'progressive agenda' you bring to our table."

The term paled Giovanni, color washing out beneath fake shimmer and faker smiles. "That's not how I meant it. What I said last week wasn't so pretentious – wasn't meant to be, anyway. Sorry if it was, but I stand by my words. Our family has been a key player in Los Angeles for generations, its business and its social spheres; I've been inside this world my entire life. What I'm putting on your table isn't an empty check. All those connections, all that momentum... it's going to bring changes. And I'm going to make sure those changes pan out the way they're supposed to." It was a futile effort – talking incredulous Elders to one's side. They were committed to their discontentment and their personal dislike of Ms. Mira. Even those with the most meager seniority over this latest "consultant" cawed about how uninterested they were in her burgeoning ideas.

Ms. Woeburne, frankly, was glad to have someone younger – someone fresher – someone whose titles were more audacious than her own. Mira made a vicious and short-lived accomplice during the downfall of Bruno Giovanni. She made an even better piñata to distract the spitting locals from their new Seneschal.

"Oh, is that so?" Therese remarked, slow blink utterly cruel. Sadism ran thickly beneath all her wan offerings and appeals for bigger badges. She settled both elbows smoothly across the polished tabletop, a casual gesture, aggression screaming in how easy those arms found their mark. "Well. I'd never stand in the way of progress, Mira. Clearly I misunderstood. Why not take this opportunity to tell us more about your _changes_? I, for one, would love to hear them."

"This should be good," Greene agreed. Three vindictive women were now staring eagerly at the lone Giovanni – varying degrees of hostility, diverse postures, all prepared to roar at whatever they heard.

Mira tried to stray optimistic, bright-faced and amicable. Had they been better friends (or friends at all), Serena might have warned her such traits were a waste of time. Pushing pleasantness and bushy-tailed optimism in a Domain with tenuous borderlines? She may as well have stuck her palm onto a barbeque grill and called it a day. This was _Los Angeles_. You were a snake by association to shake hands with Sebastian LaCroix. And what's more: everyone had seen what became of her predecessor that immaculate midsummer night.

"I'm not claiming to see the future," the Giovanni tried, fingers anxiously drumming their table, nails at its very edge. She scooted a bit. Neither the fledgling's political value nor her cleavage seduced a single member of their rapacious little cabinet. She wore a big pink flower on her oversized belt. "But this partnership makes me hopeful. That's all I really meant."

Honestly – if you smashed in her face, would small candies and color come bursting out?

Serena cleared her throat from where she currently waited by their sealed door, far enough away from the ceiling fan to avoid looking windswept but close enough to feel its draft. Mr. LaCroix instructed his Childe to always stand during these meetings – not merely because he was militarily reared, but with warnings one ought never sit complacently beside grumbling discontenters. In part, this stance makes her feel authoritative, Sebastian's attentive junior superintendent – forced posture and strict, locked knees. In the other part, however, Ms. Woeburne feels frustratingly ignored. Venture Tower's visitors rarely look at her, save with skeptical brow hikes or unmet expectations, and this constant _looming_ overhead pushes Seneschal LA so far out of the inner circle that she may as well be an old-fashioned butler rather than an officer. It seems that is mostly how these councilors regard her: an ornament post, an irritation, a newly-hatched fly on their intricate wall.

(But not as newly-hatched as Mira Giovanni, at least, resident laughingstock and clown balloon of their roll call.)

"Peers," the Seneschal chimed in, existing only when needed. She had taken to referring to them all in this very mundane, neutral, meaningless way. "I think we could stand to reel ourselves back in. You all have business later, I am sure, and Ms. Voerman's statements about Caitiff control were well-put. If you have anything more to add in that vein…?"

"Thank you, Ms. Woeburne." (Therese presumed first-name familiarity more than she ought, yes, but only from those the anfractuous legatess actually desired familiarity with. Just as well, however. No one but Sebastian took that liberty with Ms. Woeburne, a woman of cellophane and platinum, and anything less from her colleagues would've felt like violation.) "But no. I've articulated my concerns about the coast. Exhausted them, you could say."

It was easy to taste the displeasure – read how neglected Santa Monica's representative thought said concerns were. Serena diverted it evenly. "And they have been heard. The Prince is considering an appropriate response, both to the short-term problem of violence in your district and the longer-term one of illegal Siring."

Therese's penciled-in brows lifted, tweaked, dismissed. It was a gesture of unhappiness and disbelief, but better than outrage. It was also indubitably better than divulging the root of that violence had not, in fact, begun with Jyhadist mongrel-hunts, but with traps baited by Anarchs – how her bullet-eaten beach was the result of two ambushes set below rotting boardwalks.

The truth of that mess may a useful bargaining chip or blackmail material someday. With Sabbat actively gunning for her, however – and little help from Camarilla means – Seneschal Los Angeles decided this particular day was not the one. Mr. LaCroix could appreciate levying two threats against one another, Serena was sure, and besides that: the Ventrue had learned how to get better at this game. She had also learned this: plied correctly, a little Anarch distraction wasn't strictly a bad thing.

They weren't getting the jump on her again, anyway. Not this time.

She used a hand to quiet the buzz in her pocket.

Contrary to popular belief, Ms. Woeburne was not entirely ill-equipped for the routine grind of this job. She knew a little of how to placate elder Kindred – to guarantee their grievances, worries and discrepancies would be heard in her Sire's absence. True, Hendon suburb was no Los Angeles; the disputes were different in London, territories (sometimes) clearer, and Sebastian's autonomy had half its brute force overseas. Serena had warded over that stuffy, menacing red oak estate for many years with no major upheavals and only a few profanity-strewn letters. She distracted dignitaries. She passed messages on. Her welcomes were polite, abrupt, but transparent. As a powerless bailiff, there stood little risk of angering visitors whom had invested no personal interest; as mouthpiece Seneschal, people generally didn't bother getting very mad at you.

It isn't as though you would/could do _anything_ on your own, after all.

"You understand I was hoping to speak to the Prince," Voerman informed her, for the umpteenth time, as she did every meeting gone moldy. It was said accusatorily – as though his absence tonight was the Seneschal's own fault, a result of childish whinings to play Jyhad.

And, for the umpteenth time, Ms. Woeburne replied: "Mr. LaCroix is meeting with Regent Strauss on security protocol as we speak. Else, I need not remind you, he would be here now."

Their disrespect was almost liberating, in a way; with no ground to loose, one could afford an occasional slip-up or bellyache. So Serena released her aggravation with them via rare pinches of passive-aggression. They did not really seem to care. (Hell; she could probably show up in pink shorts and baby bib, sucking her thumb and pulling at pigtails, to better fulfill their mental image of Prince Los Angeles's yipping little overseer.)

Distracted by the bickering of four avaricious women, one might miss Alistair Grout entirely – frowning with misty sight in a far chair, red mane barely brushed, milky sockets lost beneath his wild brows. It was usually how these nights went. Other councilors would hem and haw at one another while the Malkavian Primogen fussed with vest buttons on his absurdly formal three-piece. Sometimes this annoyed Ms. Woeburne; other times, she welcomed a body that gave her no trouble. It was hard to determine whether or not the man had a similar opinion about Seneschal LA. Sometimes he would afford her an archaic little bow of his head when they happened to meet eyes in Nocturne or forum corridors, a courtesy she returned, albeit feeling somewhat silly about it. Others, he would visibly startle at her greetings as though she were a complete stranger. Ah, well. At least prosaic musings kept him well enough distracted. Tonight, Grout alternated between chasing threads of chocolate and gold – wilting, archaic embroidery – to staring vaporously through unshuttered windows. He was tortoise-like: easy to alarm, slow but reliable, eyes larger than they should have been.

It was odd to hear him – voice elderly, dramatic, roiling beneath the verbosity of clouded thoughts. You wondered if he had always spoken like this, or if florid language was a byproduct of madness. Alistair's was a strange spiral of mind. "It seems we have no less contention rusting our machine with so few in attendance," the Malkavian observed. Not incomprehensible, no, and that statesman's voice – trembling from an iron belly – was rarely difficult to understand. He did not even care about Kindred games, save what facts could be gleaned from the fray. Perhaps Grout's worst affliction these nights was that his clarity shone a little _too_ clear. "I wonder what demon's shadow is hanging over them both; it must be dark phantasm, indeed, to keep two devils away while law cries to be made. Unseemly to keep us waiting in uncertain times."

Ponderings from a madman – what sort of sign was it when the Prince's Childe found she couldn't disagree?

"It _is_, Alistair," Fairholm concurred, the tightness around that raspberry mouth more than a little displeased. She was playing with her ribbon, rolling scarlet between thumb and forefinger. That tiny gesture could have been more intimidating than watching spurned Barons clean their nails with knifetips.

"And for that, you have my condolences." The comment sharpened every eye in their tiny moot.

Oh, Ms. Woeburne knew she'd be stepping on a few toes with that subtle smart-remark – empty apology, empty closure, no offer to help. Unwise as it might've been to prickle Primogen, even in the smallest ways, Serena couldn't help but fight her smile, green eyes sparking hot in a cold face. It was as close to "too damned bad" as she'd ever get.

And it was true, because she certainly was not hiking upstairs to interrupt a meeting between her Sire and Mr. Strauss.

Honestly, Maximillian would likely have been a handy buffer to have. His perpetual erudite calm often smothered forum disputes before they boiled – and it was not amiss to Ms. Woeburne that whenever the Regent attended these midnight meetings, so too did her Sire. She was glad for this. Clan Tremere's Primogen had always behaved civilly, the lucid depths of his speech physically reassuring, but there lurked eldritch clout behind scholar spectacles and grandfather tranquility that Serena could not forget. They were qualities that bid you to confide in him. Confidence is a mistake no bureaucrat can afford to make; yet you could feel LA's Chantry head watching your movements, no matter how commonplace, and considering. Scrutiny was not the word, but _study_. Ventrue who balanced a thousand mistruths were highly uncomfortable with being studied. His size and complexion – and perhaps the calm, itself – were quietly threatening amongst these vicious halls.

Grout scrubbed the creases upon his sallow forehead, yellow pigment wrinkled beneath grey roots that flared wiry and orange. He took up his cup for a shaky drink of blood. There was the dignity of brilliance in this man's every motion, no matter how brittle bones or fingernails looked. "Shame Anthony isn't here."

"Oh, yes. 'On clan business' still. I'm sure he'll come running back to town when he hears about how delightful these proceedings have been." Voerman's forecast was hardly sincere. You could tell from the frosty tone and the distinct way her eyebrow flicked. She had not put a single lip-print on the glass cup before her. "Though what business that is remains to be seen."

Brujah Primogen Anthony Hale remained an unwanted, unmarked checkbox on Serena's to-do list. She knew of his name and pompous, starchy disposition only through the snide gossiping of other politicians. This solemn councilor had apparently departed Los Angeles shortly after Sebastian LaCroix's arrival demanded affirmations of Camarilla allegiances. Sparse, noncommittal words had been heard from him since then; occasional letters would reaffirm his existence and how very preoccupied he was upstate. _Curious_, so said colleagues left behind in Los Angeles. The reasons for this absence, officially, related to clan operation. But everyone suspected Hale's "business" was actually fear – or was it sound awareness? – of how opportune an 'example' his head might make sitting halfway down Nines Rodriguez's sword.

Ms. Woeburne didn't care one way or the other, though. His whereabouts had no effect upon her service, no consequences to her Sire's motives, and no impact upon her. Let Hale stay hidden bad excuses rather than breathing down their necks.

Besides, it would've been just what Serena needed: a Brujah in a suit.

"He'll be _thrilled_ to make the Seneschal's acquaintance… not to mention our newest associate's. Hello, Mira." Claudia shared a grin with the Giovanni that looked more like a slap. Serena's eyes flickered sidelong – brief, contained, reminding clever Toreador how very used to this treatment Princes' Childer were. Woeburne merely nodded at the insult. Arms cupped comfortably behind her back, she gave a little smile of her own. '_You'll have to dig deeper than that, witch.' _

Grout harrumphed into his handkerchief, patterned and tucked into one breast pocket – the one he always used. Stitched corner loops matched those upon his cuffs. Serena did not want to guess at how decrepit that thing was. "Well, no matter. We are sure to palaver again once he is not stuck fast in Sacramento by the viscid nature of clan correspondence."

Greene did not hide her smirk. "Or by Barons that go bump in the night."

"Do we even have their cooperation in this? I've heard there were some skirmishes to the south," Giovanni noted, an attempt to regain her composure. She'd crossed one leg over the other with bulky boot bobbing, a metronome pace, nervous motion that appeared laid-back. You had to admire the woman's resilience, at least. Her voice might've been young, overeager and enthused, but Mira's ambition most certainly was not. "Better out there than up here, but it would be nice to know who and what we're dealing with."

"I am working on that," Serena guaranteed, a genuine enough claim. The Seneschal's shoulders were beginning to ache, gradually but naggingly, pinching along her upper back. She shifted weight between pump soles, clasping both frigid hands over her naval. It was a decent diplomatic stance. Copious hairspray kept bang fringes from dipping around her ears to tickle the smooth, intimidating, machinework face. "Keeping this community safe is our foremost concern and there are several plans in motion to control their numbers."

The Gangrel gave her an imperturbable glance. She tapped the rim of her drink, not particularly hostile, but hardly sympathetic. Waves the color of sunburnt wheat looked oddly feudal beside blood in glass goblets. "We don't doubt it, Ms. Woeburne. We only hope your administration in exercising the appropriate level of concern."

Their forgetfulness pushed thumbs into the Ventrue's fresh sores. Serena Woeburne, recent Sabbat bomb and ambush survivor, did not take kindly to such low estimations of her survival instinct; sophomoric, yes, but _thoughtless_ did not describe this stark-faced officer with steamed vents and chisel chin. She forced out a smile that wrinkled her nose, sugary snide, unable to cloak the contempt. "None more so than I, Primogen Greene, I assure you."

Rozalin gave a limp sneer-and-shrug that might have been disregard and might have been approval – Woeburne guessed it lay somewhere in-between.

It went on like that for some time: accuse, rebuff; imply, ignore. They plucked and chuffed at one another, snapping in unfriendly hoops, dull parlay without progress. Another ninety minutes passed before the Kindred tired of Los Angeles's lightweight politics and each other. Then it was time for shuffled papers, goaded faces, conge and cabs home (and, on Ms. Woeburne's behalf, many lines to scribble into a report). She kept pokerfaced and appropriately cordial as they stood up, filed out before her, and down to Venture Tower's main lobby. Serena saw to it Joelle had all their cars waiting with warm hoods in the parking lot. She stood in front of that desk to wish five goodnights – mandatory farewells, civil procedure – frozen only long enough to hear doors slam and headlights wink.

Responsibility complete, Serena unstitched her brow, loosened her tie, mumbled acknowledgement to a sourly silent Lefevre and was clacking back through the building on gunshot heels.

Her shoulders were no looser as Seneschal LA moved through the desolate hallways, polished marble and blue light paralyzing in their frostiness. But her steps were harder, firmer, more focused. That impeccable suit slouched a bit; her determination did not. The woman moved with precision and purpose up black stairs, past a row of elevators, then towards Venture's rear exit. There was no give to Ms. Woeburne's gate. She would not be stopped by anything but emergency or Sebastian, and she was done turning in circles tonight.

Serena had always been a stiff personality, but in this line of work, you had to be a little fluid.

"Mr. Leonard," Woeburne announced into her cellular phone, and the work-worn Ventrue's voice was suddenly crisp again – deceitful, perilous confidence. Her form was concrete and a touch screen streamed photographs in the palm of her hand. "I'm sorry I missed your call. I was detained. Yes, I received the images; thank you. Very promising. You do well for yourself to work with us in this. You're sure they are tamper-proof? As glad I am to hear that, you understand I cannot take your word on it. Is it possible for you to send me a-? That will do."

"_Your position – as a Seneschal, and as a Prince's Childe – demands above all else the ability to prioritize,"_ Sebastian told her, true advice on that very first meeting they had about what this promotion entailed. He had sat behind his obsidian desk with ivory fingertips tapping the flawless, grooveless surface, blue eyes the blood of royals. _"You cannot exist on one track any longer and thrive. There are always many matters concerning a ranking man, some more important than the others – sometimes all equally important – but you must respond in a way that befits Camarilla courts. I have told you many times that it is the ordinary, seemingly trivial business that can often uproot old trees. Your position must face and contain these issues. _Your_ position is the one whom juggles them all." _

Serena slid her index finger across a dozen e-mails, pictures, truces and messages missed.

"What you can trust, Mr. Leonard, is my discretion and that those who meet the needs of our organization are generously rewarded. I've been looking forward to discussing Santa Monica with you at greater length. If you're free, then yes. I will call you back in sixty minutes with further instructions. Very good. We'll speak again shortly."

She hung up the telephone with that promise given, Barons on hold, and a Prince waiting for information upstairs.

One more ball in the air.


	66. The Raft of the Medusa

**The Raft of the Medusa**

The first time the Sabbat try to attack him, Sebastian LaCroix is in South Africa, and he escapes by the skin of his teeth. Five men with an assortment of genocide machetes and long-snouted hunting rifles burst into the manor house one evening to splatter elephant slug all over his finely-papers walls.

The second time the Sabbat try to attack him, Sebastian LaCroix is in Villefranche, and he is more than prepared. A pirate's boat sidles up alongside his rock face villa and is riddled to driftwood before it can squeeze off a shot. Afterwards, he sees it oiled and lit afire, hull sinking beneath la Darse. This is a satisfying mode of defense.

Tonight, they are a sad coterie of rabid dogs slinging pistols, scrambling up ninety tower floors with nothing but wild prayers and slavering mouths. There are no chain-guns; there are no daunting knives or explosive rounds. He can spot no saws, scoped weapons or acid spray. There is not even a single madman strapped with bombs. It's almost disappointing. If Sabbat resistance in any way measured a Camarilla gerent's success, Sebastian might guess he'd gone down in the world.

When the siege – he used extremely charitable wording here – took place, Prince Los Angeles was sitting in his penthouse with Ms. Woeburne, and a sudden high-pitched chime disturbed them.

"What was that noise?" Serena asked, straightening up in her chair, glancing about. They'd been having a very civil chat about the various subtexts of headship, Domination etiquette and damage control – a rare moment of philosophizing for Sire and Childe, these nights – one he was sure she appreciated. Still fairly new to local Jyhad, the youngling was hungry for specific, detailed schooling her master had previously foregone; she wanted instruction with a lesson plan, not vague musings on _What It Means to be Ventrue_. Mr. LaCroix understood her wishes and he was happy to feed them, for a time. (And it wasn't as though these brief tête-à-têtes cut into his schedule; there was a perfect thirty-minute gap between the weekly Primogen net conference and Friday's budget report.) While she would never be proficient enough to truly join him in the political fray, a weak and insecure second officer by design, there was nothing preventing him from making her a little more useful. Apparently what he said resonated somewhere within that loyalist mind. Ms. Woeburne was beginning to feel confident enough to smile in his presence again; occasionally she would nod, mumble some sign of interest, and give her progenitor an admiring look through dark bangs. Keen little apple-polisher agreed to every claim out of his mouth.

Sebastian had no doubts that Serena continued to fear and respect him. The child's heritage sealed off all escape routes, and it was proper for progeny to covet their predecessor's approval. Whatever self-assurance she projected could just as easily be rendered to mush again with a few hard words and a glare. Though a conniving Ventrue knew better than to trust any of his descendants completely, of their emotional turmoil, he could be sure.

This class pet _cheerfulness_ she twinkled was at least partially artificial, of course… but the Prince sort of liked her better for trying to fake it.

Dear girl had no idea their headquarters were under assault – and why would she? It sounded more like an intercom beep than a proper alarm. Her superior said nothing to disrupt the supposition, either. So she remained ignorant to the purpose of hair-raising little ding – unaware it marked an enemy sighting, a red-alert by some eagle-eyed company across the street. Martial response would already be en-route, as would PR damage control. And, of course – if they failed in curbing every danger – there was always the Sheriff.

But things rarely got that messy these days. Venture hadn't been compromised since he'd settled in, after all, and their biggest troublemakers were overeager radicals rather than organized spies. LaCroix wasn't too terribly concerned. Mass-messaging systems eliminated the need to really warn anyone important; as an afterthought only, he plucked his telephone to one ear and gave an idle ring downstairs. The Seneschal blinked politely. Diligent, semi-oblivious thing; she'd be panicking this very instant had anyone explained the crisp, five-second _'dee!' _Fortunately, Sebastian glossed over that page of the emergency manual when his Childe arrived in West California. He didn't think it worth mentioning, honestly, so what was the use of agitating the woman into half-breaths and hunched shoulders, a state that annoyed him? No, she may as well learn later.

"Never you mind," the elder Ventrue dismissed. He looked whitish and untroubled – leant slightly forward in that intimidating chair, lips barely pursed, timing how long it took the front desk to answer his call. Two fingernails tip-tapped on a thin stack of folders. When Joelle finally picked up, the Prince's instructions were brief.

"Ms. Lefevre," he said, serious but composed, name drawn out. (She had not qualified for their tower's exclusive 'Anyone Important' list. The Toreador was lucky her employer felt benevolent today.) "You might want to relocate. Immediately."

No sooner than he'd hung up did a sad, sloppy revolt erupt into Mr. LaCroix's lobby.

Serena's ears weren't quite sensitive enough to hear gunfire on Floor One, but she certainly didn't miss the stiff _'pop!'_ of a door lock blasted off its moorings five stories down. His Childe could not push nerves aside now. She swiveled around in the wheeled chair, bum on the edge of her seat, lids peeled away from chartreuse eyes. Sebastian smelled adrenaline surge. "What in the hell was _that_?" the Seneschal asked again, louder this time. Ms. Woeburne's voice tightened. She looked apt to bolt up and sprint across the room in a heartbeat.

The Prince sighed.

'_What a bother.'_

Mr. LaCroix was perturbed some hopeless shovelhead had scurried so far up his property, truthfully, and made a mental note to ream the Sheriff for it. _Someone obviously dropped the ball _– a thought accompanied by disgruntled mood and downturned mouth. The Sabbat banging about downstairs must've found an interesting route to these upper levels; he'd surely sent his brethren blitzing forward in the meanwhile, convenient distraction. Playground tactics, of course – the most basic blocks of strategy – but not an altogether bad ploy… were this building manned by idiot Barons rather than forward-thinking Camarilla. A dog crawling through ventilation shafts on its belly only underlined the sloppy security, though; hadn't he paid an exorbitant camcorder sum to prevent _exactly_ this sort of behavior? Hmm. Punishments and guard replacements would have to come later. For now, it was more important to waylay the adventurous little vermin before he weeviled into something delicate.

Rumor-mongering fools had come for the Sarcophagus, most likely, a name that had only recently whispered through Los Angeles's undercurrents. And – naturally – they'd barreled in half-cocked with neither hide-nor-hair of a plan for acquiring the thing. Hah! Their efforts were pitiable. Sad, scraping beasts – chasing tribal visions from days long passed, skittering at shadows on the cavern wall. Whatever would they do with a locked box, anyway? _'Good luck finding it, let alone prying off the lid.' _If common Anarchs were Kindred society's china shop bulls, Sabbat were rhinoceri in a glass house. Everything they wrapped their grubby paws around either exploded or turned to clay.

Fanatics were rarely funded well enough to genuinely threaten; still, you could imagine why Sebastian didn't take very kindly to them trundling around his estates. He waited for the Sheriff only until reckless intruder footsteps began slamming floorboards just beyond his door. Then, irritated in earnest, Prince LaCroix heaved another sigh and pushed himself back from the massive desktop. Fingers that had moments ago been thrumming the enamel were tucked away as he crossed both arms.

The Ventrue tipped his polished shoe against the marble square and waited. Ms. Woeburne was watching him with confusion and – though wasn't yet quite sure why – a rising dose of concern.

Both doors kicked open to the mad boar drooling chaos outside.

Seneschal Los Angeles was skittering to her feet in an instant, rooting tall and authoritative in front of that comfortable chair. Sebastian saw how mortified she was – eyes racing, soldier-backed, a rapid deconstruction of the situation. He, on the other hand, didn't lower himself to move. The Sabbat stood with its porcupine quills out, growling. Two grenades were clipped to the plague-ridden thing's tool belt, blades flashing at every spare limb, and a pistol rested on one leg… yet none of these items seemed to bolster its confidence. Standing wild-eyed and demanding in Venture Tower's threshold, the feral Brujah had no real hopes of escape or success. His jaw wagged open, panting uselessly. Dagger fangs winced bare in the cool room. Candelabra light shined over the tan ridge of shaved scalp. Muscles clenched impotently. No, this was of no use. That carrion-yellow glare showed it. His bones felt – even if the mind did not _know_ yet – that he'd charged towards nothing but an unsung death.

Serena stared blankly at the Sabbat, who stared at Prince LaCroix, who beheld them both with an indolent air of displeasure.

"Made it all the way up here, have you?" this tower's master asked, lips pursed. He was hissed at dumbly. The intruder was vacillating between spitting demands and ripping gun from holster to fire in Ms. Woeburne's direction. She stood there, ruffled up to the top button of her lady's suit, because there was nothing else to do.

Sebastian could tell from that menacing look on its face that their enemy had prepared a tirade. Such a thing would've probably only made Los Angeles's magistrate laugh. To be fair, though, the pup had done a surprisingly good job of keeping his grey matter inside his head thus far. Even now, he was snarling like someone significant – like his dismal carrying-on might do anything besides humor a blue-blooded Elder. Such a brutish determinism and upward march might've left an impression upon its betters.

Except he made a rookie mistake – a devastating, neonate mistake – indicative of one who did not know Clan Ventrue.

He looked directly into Sebastian LaCroix's eyes.

The Seneschal saw it happen. Deep blue sunk straight through the skin of its eyeballs and melted something within the animal's forebrain. That hideous expression remained plastered on his savage face, but lost meaning; it became hollow, exterior, and malleable. She couldn't precisely explain the scalpel-shaven look, and yet Serena felt she knew it very well. It was as though the posturing Ductus had run out of fuel and stalled. It was like looking at the face painted on an action figure. There was no more fire beneath that row of grinding teeth, and there was a wicked scimitar dangling limply in the slackened hand.

"Stop," the Prince said simply, though he already had. This tired word did not sound like a command, but there was no question in her mind that it was. Sebastian rose casually, rounding his desk. "Stop. Don't take another step. Remain where you are. Place your left hand behind your back and kneel."

The Brujah's body began to pop in a series of twitches and snorts. His joints, trembling, fought against the crushing inevitability – the traitorous desire of muscle to do as it was told while conscious will clawed back. He fell heavily to both knees, still seizing, snorting like a young steer that has only just been stapled through the snout. Ms. Woeburne cringed. Mr. LaCroix strode up to him confidently, devoid of fear.

The Ventrue did not stoop – he merely extended a hand, clean palm opening face-up. The Sabbat stared at it with blunted hatred. Spit ran down both corners of his mouth. Mad eyes bulged in their sockets. "Now give me your weapon," Prince Los Angeles instructed. Sebastian's voice was incredibly clear; it sounded like polished stones dropped into a scotch glass.

There was little else remaining. So the cowed raider turned over his knife, elbow shaking. Mr. LaCroix took it, studied the craftsmanship as an afterthought, then shoved point-to-hilt straight through the Brujah's throat. He gave a smooth, unhindered thrust. Tendons ripped. It was coated in some sort of poison; flesh seared. One crimson line opened across the man's jugular – spreading, a torn seam, tripping neatly over a bouncing Adam's apple.

Blood leaked around the tang, rolled down his neckline, and speckled the floor. In the interest of not making a horrible mess, Sebastian left it there. The Sabbat gurgled for a few moments, still paralyzed, until falling to his side and slowly expiring in the center of Venture Tower's moneyed penthouse. It took him ten minutes to die. Bewildered assistants were there in three to drag away the retching, impaled corpse. Just as well; Serena, looking like someone who'd witnessed a gruesome automobile accident, imagined her Sire would be irritated with dissident dust poofing all over his floor.

She plunked down into her chair.

The Prince, too, sat back down. Frowning, he interlaced his fingers, glanced towards the red smear-trail, and very obviously pondered whose head would be roasting on a fiery spit for this.

"I'm sorry that delayed us," LaCroix muttered, rearranging a few papers. In truth, though, he almost thought it fortunate Ms. Woeburne had been here to experience this. Slack (_'humiliating'_) security made him angry, yet it provided her with yet another course in well-tailored duplicity. Lords do not fret over a beast. Some monsters you ought not to gratify with your fright – or even your haste, attentions tailored neatly around weapon edges. Threatening and loutish as the masses were, there was no worthy opponent to Ventrue design.

He had taught her a very important message over this past year – perhaps one of the most vital to living a long and prosperous afterlife. Through dealings with a crippled Free-State, Serena learned the tactical value of stringing along opponents; she mastered tolerance with an agenda. She experienced the rubbery nature of truces and how flexible they could be when set by a clever diplomat. She understood how easily these bonds were tied and then snipped; how one carefully-placed clue or 'isolated event' could branch into a convenient armistice or turn dissenters on themselves. It was a tune Sebastian LaCroix played every decade of his political history. It was a tune he played now: signing empty power checks to a Giovanni harlot; sending his Childe to trot around Brujah Barons, white flags and poisoned olives; humoring Beckett and that dottering academic he'd brought along; trolling around Chinatown with a dangling lure, waiting for those haughty devils' strategic purpose to reveal itself.

He risked her because it was conducive to good plotting, yes – he'd made calculated risk an art form after so many enterprises and colonies – but in doing so, Prince Los Angeles had also given his Childe the initiation rite of great men: trial-by-fire. Sebastian was no taskmaster or pedagogue to bore her with futile memorization and "old ways." Far better to have a whip for your cart than a halter. Better still to wear bits than blinders and oatsacks. Young corporals could only hope their patriarchs might lend such a long chain… illusion though some links might've been. So, you see – despite Ms. Woeburne's mediocrities, he had done her an incredible service. She had been exposed to the same vein of character that her Sire had, cut from a similar tutelage. If this fidgeting child survived – and he made no assumptions, for superior prospects had already fallen – she would leave strong. She would pay the price of genetic supremacy and come out finer for it. He could make this woman into far more than she ever could've been with some other overseer – some sentimental, doting buffoon or squeamish raj. _'Another Viscount de Viron,'_ the Ventrue thought, a contemptuous name that raked his spine with old disgust and deep-seated hatred. But he wasn't of that ilk. _He_ was no fat-bellied incompetent who Embraced minions to face the challenges that he could not. There was nothing 'weak' about Sebastian LaCroix.

She was so fortunate. She had no _idea_ how fortunate.

"It's no trouble," Serena told him, forcing a smile past the blood spray. She smoothed her brown hair. "I suppose that's one less after me."

Prince Los Angeles remembered, some time not altogether long ago, the dear girl weeping into his lapels with two black eyes. She'd sobbed herself into bits because some Anarch agitator with broken aims and vicious bite had _hit_ her. And now she looked him in the face and found the mettle to joke.

Sebastian supposed these past months in America had given him grounds enough to line his Childe up on the chopping block downstairs. But – for now, for progress, and for patron's honor – he decided to be proud of her instead.


	67. On the Origin of Species

**On the Origin of Species**

Serena was stripping off her pantyhose when the woman's cellular rang.

"It's about time," Ms. Woeburne scolded, yanking the last stretch of clingy brown spandex off her heel. Awful, itchy thing. She bunched both into a haphazard ball and lobbed it over the couch. One leg caught on an edge of glass coffee table, snagged upon her Kahr holster; the other bounced somewhere by her flat-screen. "I have had one hell of a night, let me tell you. Suffice to say: either we've made the Sabbat suicidal in a handful of evenings, or this whole culling effort hasn't been going as swimmingly as I hoped. Did you receive my surveillance report?"

"_I got it. We have a problem."_

'_Of course,'_ the Seneschal grumbled to herself, gritting back a sigh and stress headache. Two accurate fingers pinched a flap of skin between shut green eyes. This was Los Angeles, caught in smog and ocean water; it was a town where nothing – _ever_ – went smoothly. Still, much as Serena would've rather clicked off the phone and actually slept without her stomach full of ants, she was duty-bound to ask. The woman had a bad feeling this might be waiting. A missed call from Rodriguez had been sitting in her inbox, no message attached; she never programmed the Anarch's private number. She couldn't stand to put his name down.

"What problem? I don't see how I could have possibly been more thorough." Especially since Woeburne had only just consulted Mr. Leonard – her first Nosferatu colleague, an effusive Camarilla neophyte she'd snatched up from his beheaded Sire's clutch. Mr. LaCroix's military response to illegal Embrace was beneficial for more reason than one. It was a sad story, a de Luca reenactment – one that worked out very well for Ventrue whom needed Brujah Barons kept in-check. The arrangement between them was vague enough to avoid tripping company sirens, of course, but it was nonetheless an effort made. "Not without pasting a camera right outside Voerman's bedroom window, a scene which I am sure neither you nor I really wants to-"

"_I sent one of my people to Santa Monica right after we talked,"_ Nines told her, flat and apathetic about covering his political maneuverings. Woeburne wasn't fresh enough to feel offended. She expected Anarch scouts would mobilize before contacting their unsavory Camarilla associate, just to beat any unannounced bugs or ambushes to the punch. The Foreman shrugged it off. She squeezed the receiver under one ear and began poking annoying little blouse buttons undone. Strands of dry brunette snagged them and popped into split-ends. _"She saw something that you need to know about. I don't have any details yet. But right after I left my meeting, an unmarked van pulled up around Fifth Street – maybe three, four hours later. My footman said there was a ghoul behind the wheel. Now, I wanted to call it a fluke, but I had her scan your clips for the plate numbers. We've got caps of it passing the same six stoplights yesterday and tonight. I think you know what that means."_ But he didn't give her time to toss out any theories. Rodriguez waylaid conspiracy charges or their usual hostilities, as well, something that doubly troubled Serena; the Brujah seemed concerned. _"One of those bitches is sending patrol cars around the city; whether it's routine or a reaction to our activity there, we're not sure. Jeanette swears it's not her doing. I'm willing to cut you the benefit of the doubt, London, as I can't see what you'd gain here by violating my confidence. But you better be absolutely sure your seams are hidden." _

"Don't worry," Woeburne said, though she felt little else but. The Seneschal was becoming quite adept at offering cardboard guarantees. She slackened into the sofa, deflated her lungs until sunk completely behind their cage of ribs, and then lurched to both feet. The Ventrue's sad state of dress did not inspire great courage, but she nevertheless rummaged about for her house robe. _Mauve_ – seasick color, bland and neutral. Cold fingers tied an obi over the angle of her hips. "If worse comes to worse, we can always level blame onto the Sabbat. You've probably heard, but a pack just-"

"_There's more," _the man finally said, unease making his lips pull tight around eye teeth. Serena waited with growing agitation. There was always more. She did not like that uncomfortable shift in Nines's voice, though – it racked suddenly enough to knock the Brujah machismo down several decibels, indicating tripwires. _"I don't expect this is gonna' be a serious issue, but I still think you ought to be in-the-loop. They grabbed an old contact of yours the other night. Not a real worthwhile one – not one with enough info to hurt – doubt she really knows anything. But you need to prepare for it. If you want an alibi, there's this East Side Toreador; he's friendly with the Cam and he owes me a favor-"_

Ms. Woeburne, impatient, snapped a rubber band around her tangled circlet of hair. She scowled. "Back up. Before we start discussing alibis and debts – what are you talking about?"

A breath rasped the receiver. _"I don't know how this happened or why. But they picked up that thin-blood. Harris."_

He slipped it in as though she'd forgotten the name.

Serena stopped with ten bare toes pressed into prickly carpet and a hand rooted against her scalp.

What ought she have to say? What should a Seneschal think? The woman did not know – nor did she know if there were any convincing reasons that time alone might cultivate pity for traitors. _Time_ was a useless commodity to off-the-clock Kindred. She knew that her mouth did not taste like grief. She knew there were no wild regrets springing to life that even remotely resembled a conscience. Cool air stood follicles up along both pale arms. Her wrap sagged without attendance. What good would second-guessing do? Fear and a mild plunging sensation upset the Ventrue's gut, anxieties about her own survival. Residual anger licked along the agent's spine, little more than a scabby grudge. _'How does one respond to this? Do I care?'_

She didn't think so. She felt chilly, mostly, and shouldered the purple lapels back to her neckline.

"I see," she said.

A moment passed in which they hesitated to speak.

"_What do you want me to do?"_ Rodriguez asked.

Serena puffed air, a domineering gesture that was also the telltale sign of her chagrin. Both fists balled and perched on hipbones. " I don't see what else you can do," she clapped, tasting the leftover wax on her bottom lip. "She's a potential informant. You're going to have to send someone to Santa Monica and get her out."

Another silence delayed the Anarch's answer. _"I'm surprised to hear you say that."_

"And why?" The Ventrue snorted; it was her fairest critique of their predicament. Yet her defenses were less armored than sharpened; the idea of Lily's capture wrestled about, ripping up tiles and scrounging for blame. "Is it because she bit me? I don't know what sort of officer you think I am – or, for that matter, how I've possibly pinned down my tongue to talk with you all this time – but I've not done that poorly. I'm not like your people. I don't let personal objections override business," she spat. Woeburne sat heavily, stood up, paced once around her den and finally folded a knee into the wheeled desk chair. Tangled fibers tickled skin. The old antagonism was burbling into white foam and creeping up her throat. She gave a hideous, inadvertent grimace. She silently hissed.

Nines heard her churn bile and reacted; Brujah placated with firmness rather than cajoling. _"Listen. This was not something we could have prepared for. I'm going to take care of this. But until the two of us either come up with a solution or this thing resolves itself, it's important to keep tabs on it."_

"Until they kill her, you mean," Serena corrected him; her clarity was vindictive.

The pause lasted two beats. It was just long enough for Rodriguez's mouth to purse.

"_In all likelihood, Serena – yeah,"_ the Anarch said. _"Until then, I will let you know."_

His lack of pretense shot her flat. Or maybe it was the use of her name.

In end, it didn't matter much to Seneschal LA whether the ex-Baron was genuine or merely turning another page in his ugly book of mind games. She smoothed this rising sense of doom – a primordial, unattractive thing – down along her vertebrae, placed both palms atop stiff thighs, and exhaled. She ground bottom jaw against top. No. Though it might have curdled her blood to admit this so plainly, Serena did not feel a great deal of horror for poor, foolish Lily. She almost wished she did – wanted to preserve some corner of human sympathy. But any repent she may have felt – any sympathy or peripheral sadness – had been scalded clean by the liberty Nines Rodriguez had just taken with her.

She breathed out – tempered, processed, and reserved. "Don't ever call me that again."

"_What?"_

"Don't insult me," Woeburne snarled, calm peeling like an egg skin. Her organs felt parched. She wanted him to bleed. "You haven't earned it. You haven't earned the right."

Serena Woeburne was not a fresh-born undead devotee, would not be talked to like one, and would certainly not stand for intimacy gestures from a dethroned Anarch. And she had never hated LA's ousted chief more than that passable moment in which he condescended to be her friend.

His confusion gave way to familiar resentment. _"If that's the way you want to keep things between you and me, fine,"_ the Kindred said, stopped for five seconds, and retreated. Then _Business As Usual_. Their aggression was a well-known, if reviled, comfort. Unable to hold it so close any longer, the Prince's Childe set her telephone upon an empty edge of desk and clicked on speaker mode. She took his excuses as time to recollect herself, to will down her vitriol. A wrist scraped away sting upon her paled brow. The Seneschal felt like vomiting, desperate for some way to rinse her insides. She wished he would stop talking to her. She wished for a short but very powerful second that he would die.

"_I don't need you to get along with me. I don't need you to do anything. Like I said, consider this as me repaying a courtesy,"_ Rodriguez was saying somewhere halfway across the city. Serena didn't feel well enough to appreciate this turnaround – not after Sabbat stormed Venture Tower, and especially not after that._ "I was just telling you about getting a statement. This friend of mine, this Toreador – I'll put you in touch. He'll say whatever you want him to say. I've made sure of that."_

Ms. Woeburne's dizziness weakened momentarily. Nails pierced through porous upholstery and into the sponge-stuffing of her chair. An indefinable sound squawked its way through her throat. "Because what we surely need now are more witnesses to this awful partnership! Stop. _Stop_. I can't deal with this. It's not an option. We are never bringing your 'friends' into this. Do you understand me?" Her stomach hurt – a pointed, stitch-pull pain. She gulped a glob of spit that rubbed like disgust and burned like lemon juice; it was difficult not hawking it onto the floor.

"_I don't see what the big fucking deal is. I made a sugges—" _

"I don't give a damn if you can see it or not! God, Nines. Is that how you describe me? 'This Ventrue who owes me a favor?' _Christ_." Her lips smacked, a repulsed gesture. "I'm going to be sick," she said to no one in particular.

There was no compassion divvied out for her, and the Seneschal did not want any. She would've yellowed worse had this egomaniac the audacity to treat her with concern after speaking to Serena like a comrade. _"Get it together. You can't afford this squeamish shit and I don't have time to let you work around it. We have too much riding on Santa Monica."_

"WE do not have anything," she choked, a swear from deep in her belly, needing him to hear it more than herself. "YOU watch Santa Monica on tenterhooks. YOU rely upon the loyalties of a Voerman sister. I want the Hallowbrook Pack exterminated – that is as far as my interests reach."

"_That's understood, Woeburne. But Harris is your skeleton as much as she is mine. I already told you I don't think she knows enough to do us any serious harm. But on the off-chance this does become a problem, you'd be smart to make use of the little aid I am offering."_

Serena barked out a vile, jaded laugh. Both arms cross-hatched over her aching core. "And I'm supposed to take your word for it – to vest my faith in some beholden Toreador from East LA? No. I'm not a soldier you can order around. Furthermore, _I_ did not pump a fledgling full of intel and lose her. You lit this bomb; it is your responsibility to curtail her."

"_She betrayed you, London. Did you forget?"_

"She's a _girl_, Nines," Ms. Woeburne lashed back. "You can't just leave her there and hope for lax interrogators. She did it because of you; now she has nothing to provide."

"_Yeah, I know it. Lily was a good kid. It's terrible. I'm sorry," _he cut, a terse, aggressive tone that was not apologetic at all._ "But fact is, bailing Caitiff isn't my priority right now."_

The Ventrue could not cadge up enough naiveté to believe any of these claims; orders and intrigues did not soften obituaries. She hoisted herself forward in a violent, callous motion. The wheeled chair skidded fast enough to nearly buck her. "And what if she compromises us? Neither you nor I can really be sure what sort of information that woman stumbled upon. Besides that, she has plenty of motivation to strike out against us. If Therese's henchmen frighten her badly enough – which I'm confident they will – who knows what damage she could do? A lie hits hard as truth when it comes to political confessions. You should know that. You, of all people, should…" A breath to douse bygone anger – to bleach memories of basements, threats, and swelling carpals. "Hell. Given how she's been treated, Lily may even be a willing participant. For all you know, she went to them."

She'd never detested a solitary scoff more than his when the Anarch chuffed: _"Slim?"_

"It's as valid a worry as any of yours. Why aren't you taking this seriously?"

"_Seriously?"_ the Brujah gruffed, unexpected bitterness overshadowing the insult of how Serena had scolded him. _"You want to talk _serious_? Let me clue you in, Woeburne. You're not the only one in LA with a giant motherfucking target painted on their head. I got Sabbat knocking in the goddamn door down here; I got people dead and, on top of that, blood-witches throwing plague charges around on the sidelines. I don't got time to deal with the junior-leagues shit. Just like I don't got time to worry about what you want me to call you. And, _Ms. Woeburne_, that's why you're going to choke down your great big Ventrue ego and agree to the fucking statement. Because if you don't learn to reciprocate the ground you ask for, you're not going out surrounded by corporates. You're doing to die in a ditch. And you'll be alone."_

Serena leveled her tongue tip against the ridged pink roof of her palate. "You used her," she noted. "You used an idiot child to gain leverage and now you're going to let her die. Why should I value any offer you make?"

"_You sure as hell valued plenty of them so far,_" he growled back, insolent. _"Answer me this: why the fuck would I be trying to screw you out of the Camarilla when they're the only reason you're any use to me? We're not new to this backroom routine, Woeburne. Who are you, anyway? You're the one throwing your pedigree around like it's some sort of fucking title. So why don't you just tell me what your issue is? Is this about her, or is this about me?"_

The Seneschal's temper had been rerouted to stomach cramps before it could peak, but his belligerent questions brought that murderous crest close again. "My issue is that this isn't MY issue. You talk about her in past tense – like the girl's dead and gone. But she isn't dead yet. This is about culpability, and the fact that you-"

"_I didn't plan on it turning out this way. But she's not my problem anymore."_

"Not your-?" The woman had no other channel for her outrage, so she coughed. "This isn't a matter of delegation, Rodriguez. You seduced her. You convinced a bereft fledgling that you were her friend, that you'd foster her, and now you can't be bothered?"

"_So did you."_

"I never claimed to be a commonwealth saint!"

"_You don't expect me to buy that you still think Jyhad stays in boardrooms? Hmm. Tough chance. You ain't that much of a bleeding heart, London. And I know you know I'm not."_ A vacillation – time to chew on the defendant's claims. What else? Empathy – a weedy emotion that rotted beside Serena's kidney. She resented it in any flavor, but much more so when directed at her. _"You don't have to do this for my benefit, you know. I realize how it works. Kid did you a raw turn, she made some stupid decisions – if this is her last card, that's a shame, but it's how our world rolls on. The spokes keep turning and the broken chips fall off. Nothing either one of us can do about that. It's a gross truth, but it's the only one. So any time you like, you can stop pretending to give a fuck."_

The Ventrue bared her teeth to a mass of satellite and cable wire. She could see the Anarch's narrow look, the indecisive color of eyes that alleged too much, exposed nothing real. She wanted them ripped out. She wanted to see if his spell broke with the Brujah piper reduced to dark holes in a mute, sightless skull. "You son-of-a-bitch. How dare you presume to tell me who I am and what concerns me. Work with me if you must, judge me if it makes you feel clever, but you will damn well remember what I'm not. I am not one of your meat-shields. I am not one of your friends. I have aspirations. I have a sense of where I stand in the world and what I may or may not do within it. And here is what sickens me the most about _you_: I might not make a public spectacle of it, I might not let it determine my actions, but I DO give a fuck." She came dangerously close to shouting it.

"_You should. But I don't think you do."_

Serena thought about plunking her phone into the sink and never speaking with Nines Rodriguez again. She refused to respond.

"_We do what we have to," _the man continued anyway._ "You don't need to rationalize it. And I don't need a show. You want to know something else? That selective morality of yours is getting old, Woeburne. Kill kine like there's no tomorrow, compromise your credibility under a crosshair, sneak around your Sire to cut a bargain with me… then squirm when the casualties come in? Give me a break, Princess. You always knew these were the stakes. _This_ is how it _works_."_

"Camarilla protection does not extend to thin-bloods! Lily was never our liability. She never thought otherwise; I never led her to believe she would find acceptance with us. I humored her, yes – I gave her a few dollars and some advice upon occasion. It was only to keep her out of trouble; we weren't involved any deeper than that. It was not an endorsement. She's simply not one of our people."

He did not hesitate. _"And she's not one of mine."_

Serena looked at the cell sitting unkindly upon polished oak. She had nothing else to say.

"You're a demon," she told him.

"_We all play the same game, London," _Nines said – so London hung up.

The Empire Arms suite was very quiet.

Her knees were cold. Ms. Woeburne, turning the flat phone face about in one hand, stood. These overhead lights were cool and undimmed. Her stockings were still latched to one corner of coffee table, dangling off that hideous abalone shell. Her abdomen hurt. She pocketed the cell, but did not like its sagging feel against her hip. It sat better on the table. That way she didn't have to touch it. That way she didn't have to think about it – or how Lily had ruined her own life – or if Nines Rodriguez and professional indifference had ruined it for her – and she did not have to wonder what that future mirrored. Serena could bury tonight beneath a pile of magazines and paperwork and forget how she had grown afraid of the same empty allegiances cutting short her own existence.

It was like looking through a window covered with ice. The first hook dug into Ms. Woeburne had been months-that-felt-like-years ago; she had been hounded and extorted, forced to minor treason. One name of one double-crossing spy seemed like a small price to pay at the time. It seemed like an isolated incident – repugnant, but concealable – a blackhead on the crisp clean track of a long career. Yet that singular event had launched her down a slippery slope, heading for a black hole that looked increasingly like oblivion. The Ventrue was spiteful enough not to admire the grinning madman walking towards her with a hatchet. Elitism and prejudice were saving graces; bigotry aside, even she had to admit Rodriguez owned a lulling sense of Presence, a difficult man to distrust. So distrust had become routine. But he was right – it didn't matter. She could abhor failing demagogues all she pleased; what would that avail her? Serena caught glimpses of her coming days: each attempt at undoing mistakes tightened the noose, every uncomfortable pact kicking up speed. Every phone call cast another barb into her hide. She could feel them claw at her ribs, stretching the skin whenever she tried to move away. _Naim Carroll. _It had been one stupid accident, but suddenly the woman had stripped off her shirt, saw a belly full of grapnels, and realized there was no escaping him; Naim Carroll had given Nines Rodriguez leeway to latch onto her, and now she could not cut those lines. She had begun to doubt he really believed there was any surviving the Camarilla. Maybe the deposed Free-State pariah just wanted to raze as many enemy assets as he could before they destroyed him.

Lily Harris was going to die not because she'd been especially gullible, but because the girl had been hers.

This duplicity was too familiar. This warning tale was too prophetic. This robe was too thin and it did not keep her warm; maybe if she walked into the bedroom – stripped, washed, slept with a gun beneath her mattress – she would wake up all right. She would not let the machinations of a sinking Baron drag her down with him because she was Sebastian LaCroix's. Nor would she be the top rung on his ladder to toppling a Prince. She would return to a nameless, restricted, unshaken existence: mouthpiece Prince Los Angeles. She would not allow him to leave her friendless, waiting to die.

"I'm not dead. Not yet," Serena said. The declaration rested quietly in her vacant apartment with its tall, perfect, white-washed walls.

She decided that she would never do this again.

**II.**

It was loud in Santa Monica that night. This came as no surprise to Ms. Woeburne. Los Angeles was a loud, restless city – its arteries were packed with impatient taxi drivers, alleys rustling rats and narcotics, thoroughfares dripping young people. It was a constant, excited din. Even here, in a waning suburb propagated by amateur surfers, there was hardly enough room to hear oneself think. This was particularly true outside _The Asylum_; bass lent a heartbeat to the surrounding sidewalks, vibrating car windows, flickering light fixtures, and rolling leftover raindrops down the brick buildings adjacent.

Despite herself, Serena had gotten used to the relentless thrum of too-loud music. Still drove her mad, but there it was. Ramming one's head into a plot of sand until the racket dissipated was not an option, after all; there was no miracle stretch of beachfront lucky enough to escape this clamor. Pointless fireworks exploded in the wet air somewhere towards Clover Park. The Ventrue could taste their gunpowder. Frequent coast trips had taught her how to filter different scents from the normal pepper of ocean water, bonfires and youth. It burbled coldly this evening; a light thunderstorm had dropped the temperature, nudging drunken swimmers for indoor pools rather than shoreline rendezvous.

Just as well, really. Seneschal LA wasn't in any sort of mood to finagle her way through a waiting room full of inebriated broken legs.

She parked her car in a condo lot, cast one unhappy glance up and down this shady side-street, and jammed the anti-theft wheel lock snugly into place. Keys clinked in a coat pocket. Her pistol rested safely against one thigh. Satisfied as was possible given the current situation, Ms. Woeburne exited her Jaguar and stalked quickly up cool pavement to enter Santa Monica Medical Clinic.

The Ventrue picked apart her video records for an hour before leaving; though Nines hadn't disclosed any plate numbers, it was easy enough to spot. As he said, the vehicle bore no distinctive markings or insignia – it was white with tinted windows, fenders grungy, condition fair. This van was innocent enough on the exterior, but he wasn't lying (at least not now); almost every night since she'd mounted cameras beside that Fifth Street stoplight, it pulled slowly up to the curb, lingered a moment, then drove on. So Serena had a decent slice of confidence that, if she happened to peek out of the nearby parking lot around ten o'clock, there it would be… ominous, inconspicuous, and very likely registered to Therese Voerman. She was relieved to find her sleuth skills were still passable. Ms. Woeburne wheeled after it, lagging along a patrol route, until eventually winding up in an alley outside the district's 24/7 medical center and blood bank.

Calling this facility 'discreet' would be technically correct, but a grave misnomer. The venue was not exactly where senators took their sons for tonsillectomies. A patient willingly visited Santa Monica's own no-questions-asked clinic for one of few reasons: they were illegal, poor, a body-boarder too soused to know their own name (let alone insurance provider), or a hungry Kindred unable to hunt. The would-be Prince of this region was, according to Camarilla doctrines, strict about whom she permitted to feed. If a club couldn't satisfy – and these posh environments did not cater to all creatures or personalities – alternate outlets existed in the form of ghoul-nurses with _very_ liberal donation policies.

Serena had just seen one, in fact – climbing out of that parked van, dropping to sidewalk, and entering the clinic through a dreary backdoor.

'_Hmph. Well, here's to haring off halfcocked,'_ the Seneschal toasted herself, patted her six-shooter, and clambered after him.

Ms. Woeburne did not know how to pick locks. The finer points of larceny hadn't exactly been part of their clan brochure; respectable officers, after all, had mercenary Nosferatu lined up to do this sort of thing for them. Different bloodlines followed very different methods of dealing with the doors that stood between them and success. Tremere melted them. Gangrel avoided them entirely. Brujah broke them down. Toreador, ever the social butterflies, generally fucked their way through red tape. There were dozens of techniques available for varying difficulty levels. Few of these rivaled the Ventrue's particular talent, though – and why they stood above sister Kindred since their ancient cities burnt.

Ms. Woeburne couldn't pick locks – but she _could_ Dominate.

"You, there. Yes, you – come back, please. I have business here. You know what I mean. Let me in," the woman barked, rapping her knuckles until that gangly, carrot-topped underling came scuttling back. He blinked. He looked at her through misted, grimy glass; beyond it, she could see claustrophobic stairs and anodyne green lights. In the foreground, this strange boy's face twisted of slave – eyes wide with crystal-white madness, clean scrubs, violent dimples and dark patches beneath both shallow cheeks. She imagined he must've been accustomed to vampires knocking at all hours of night, pasty and with grumbling stomachs, requesting services that very few other organizations could supply. And there was little doubt in Serena's mind that this bizarre young man reeked of ghoul. He fidgeted, perpetually uncomfortable, maniac; these traits manifested differently among Cainite servants, relied upon their blood type and varied between individuals, but they were hard to miss.

The minor monster looked her over, lip curling in Igor fashion. He darted a contemptuous glance towards the reception room that Ms. Woeburne could not see. She, too, checked her alleyway for any suspicious strays.

"Look at this," the man sighed, a croon that sounded like someone's gardening hoe scraping down herbs. The Seneschal felt apprehension flash from her spinal column, over nerves, across pores, finally teasing cat hairs up along her neck. She did not like the way he spoke. Neither did she like his stance, chemical smell, or the way those opaque eyeballs were glinting her way. Something about this minion stunk of goblin shark. "You're very impatient. Who do we have here?"

Serena showed her teeth like an ID swipe. She did not have much of a plan, but her lineage and recent promotion _did_ make the woman into a professional bitcher. "My titles are above your pay grade, I am sure. Suffice to say I could bring some serious misfortune upon your employers if you make my job more difficult than it has to be. So, for the sake of not giving me any more trouble – open this door."

First setback of tonight: ghouls with enough brainpower not to take Kindred threats at face value. The strange boy's nametag glistened bronze in these floodlights, but she didn't bother reading it. "Oh, no. No, I don't think so. I'm not paid to do politics, Business Betty. If you're looking for anything other than a few pints – which, by the way, I'd be happy to sell you – we're not going anywhere. You're going to have to take this—" He flicked out a finger and gestured up and down the Ventrue's somber trench coat. "—to Queen Bitch. So, if there's nothing else…"

"OPEN THE DOOR AND GET OUT OF MY WAY," Serena boomed.

Color siphoned out of the guard's odd stare, he reached for the knob, and swung it open.

Ms. Woeburne grabbed a fistful of uniform scruff, hauled him outside, flipped out her pepper spray and proceeded to empty the entire canister directly into his face. Then, while he was laying there screaming, she snatched up a loose key ring, stepped inside, and locked the door.

Streetlights sealed off behind her, leaving the woman bathed in that anesthetic off-lime, surrounded by silence and an occasional waiting room moan. _Ah_. That was much better. All the howling and cursing outside had been muffled to dull squawking by Santa Monica Clinic's insulated walls. She could smell blood from here, pungent and carmine through the hallway doors, stirring but unappetizing. Rather than investigate the source, Serena pressed on at a serious canter.

She'd have to move quickly, of course – though it was a lovely distracter, cayenne juice wore off eventually – and someone might wander over to see what all the crying was about. Her steps clacked down steep concrete stairs. Ms. Woeburne briefly noted how dense it had been not to choose quieter footwear, but she tended to make bad shoe choices on nights like this one. No matter. There was no one loitering in the hospital's bowels; every sound echoed, from Nikes squeaking upstairs to ailing patients' burps, yelps and guttural throes. Serena's heel taps bounced boldly off the fading white plaster around her. An overhead arrow blinked "BLOOD BANK" in a foreboding way that slapped of Dante. Gave her the willies, to be perfectly honest. LaCroix's Childe had never been a fan of needles, having wailed her twelve-year-old eyes out one Halloween night when a schoolmate burst into their dormitory dressed as a mad surgeon. But she heard computers whirring downstairs. If there was any useful information to be dug up on Therese's patrols, the Clinic database was a good start. Voerman practically stored ghouls here, after all.

Well, and because it was either this or storming into _The Asylum _to hijack her hard drive… which is to say, not an option, at all. Oh, well. If push came to shove, she could always dirty her hands wringing something relevant out of that flailing boy outside

Ms. Woeburne reached a dead-end at the stairwell's bottom, glanced down at the spotted tiles, and fumbled for the nearest doorknob. It read "Restricted Area" in plump typeface, but she was no stranger to trespassing; Serena tried three keys before the fourth slid home. She opened the door a crack.

Sure enough, the sterile corridor led into a cramped computer room. Four monitors with bubbling screensavers lined one pipe-stained wall, precariously stacked upon a cheap plywood table, faintly glowing upon someone's dilapidated armchair shoved to the far corner. This place apparently doubled as a break area. The Ventrue couldn't help but roll her eyes at its flaccid yellow furniture, patterned with what appeared to be cherries. There was a hobbled coffee table stacked with crushed Coke cans and energy drinks. A vending machine held fort just a few feet away, half-stocked, potato chip bags and crumbly granola bars vying for attention next to the file of obsolete PCs. Nothing particularly threatening lingered inside. After a perfunctory search for cameras, Serena stepped in, shutting the space quietly behind her. It was dark, so she flipped on the lights. They flashed awake with a power surge _szzt. _

There was no time to sit down – not that fold-out chairs looked at all appealing. Ms. Woeburne bent over the nearest terminal, shaking its mouse awake. Happy soapsuds blinked away to an outdated Windows desktop. Password protected, of course, but this woman had worked in too many offices to let generic file security hinder her. The local greenhorn _always_ forgot and their superiors unfailingly grew tired of reminding them; hence, tricky codes tended to wind up jotted on unlabeled notes somewhere nearby. There were several numbered strips of tape and paper scraps tacked around the workstation, scribbled into margins by dull pencils. She tipped them into the dialogue box one-by-one, forward and backwards, until it unlocked. _'0-9-1-1. Quaint. What is it with these people?'_

There were no records available about kidnapped thin-bloods, and Serena had no opportunity for anything but brief word searches. The most coveted information stored here was a list of Los Angeles's biggest blood trade cash-cows (apparently Kindred weren't the only ones interested in buying bags of O+) and this week's freezer combination. As she wasn't very compelled to gorge on stolen plasma or scrounge for liver icies, Ms. Woeburne might as well leave before someone washed the acid out of that ghoul's eyes. (She could just as easily have shot him, of course, but wasn't really keen on the potential fallout from murdering another vampire's errand-runner.)

"What a waste of my time," the Ventrue grumbled aloud.

That said, Serena sleeved fingerprints off the keyboard, turned around, and resigned herself to leaving this shitty R&R room empty-handed.

A muffled whine distracted her – followed by a dull, echoing thump of something hitting drywall.

The vampire stilled, silencing her heels, pressing down both sides of black gabardine coat.

She heard it again: a curt, stubborn _thud._ Then a pause. Then an insistent series: _thud-thud-thud._ It sounded like a basketball bouncing off old backboard. It was coming from somewhere just beyond the vending machine; that last impact rattled a few fruit gummies in their holsters. Ms. Woeburne listened. Perhaps an unstable mental patient hid their medication? There must be a psych ward here, and the distasteful facilities – proctology and pediatrics, for instance – were usually secreted away in some inconspicuous corner of hospital. It could've been as uninteresting as faulty radiators or a gurgling boiler… but one never went wrong double-checking. Double-checking retained its prestigious position as _Rule One_ in Seneschal LA's Jyhad survival booklet.

Unable to determine what was making such a ruckus, she pressed her ear against the wall, knocked at it, and found hollowness beyond. Serena didn't see any giveaway latches or handy keyholes. She ran her hands along cool turquoise paint for a few moments – felt the foundation's weakness, smelled discount timber and rot – then gave it a solid little kick of her own.

The mumbled, unarticulated whines erupted into exuberant squealing.

Ms. Woeburne, too rushed to clamber through vents infiltrator-style, shoved the top-heavy vending machine a few feet away. Its sluggish wheels caught carpet nubs. Not wanting to waste pistol shots on flimsy plasterboard, the Ventrue simply heaved herself forward and dumped the contraption over, sending its roof crashing through. "Stand clear!"

Coins rattled inside. Starbursts and Mentos ricocheted out of their respective slots to whack against plastic. Woodchips splintered into the air and plinked off Serena's slacks. Dust rose, carrying up an unpleasant aroma of lumber mill and spray paint. She pushed the upended piece of equipment aside with some difficulty; it left a gaping, toothed hole, leading into a claustrophobic chamber with dirty white tiles.

Reaching for her weapon – a reflex safety precaution – the officer ducked through.

She wasn't sure what she expected; but she _is_ sure it wasn't this.

Lily dangled on the other side of the gypsum plaster, handcuffs looped around an overhead water pipe, one thick squarelet of duct-tape strapped over her mouth.

The Caitiff looked like a refugee. Her ginger hair was matted and filthy; damp clothes trickled off emaciated limbs; scabs crusted bare knees. There were no shoes on the girl's feet. Her cracked toes bled through thin ankle socks, missing nails; she had been kicking endlessly at this wall, skidding herself across the brass pipe, trying vainly to saw through the cuff chain. It went on for hours – maybe days. There were no trousers covering her legs, burn marks showing across the vampire's inner thighs. She wore only stale underwear and a sodden, oversized sweatshirt, bunched blue sleeves rising welts around straining biceps. Her arms were racked painfully over Harris's head, stiffened by numbness. Impressive scrapes oozed. Razor cuts mangled the vulnerable insides of both elbows. Hazel eyes, sunken black, bulged. She was beyond pale. She was yellow. Blue veins pulsed out of proportion, tracing long bones, losing precious blood from the deep gouges in her wrists. If this young woman had been properly alive when Therese Voerman's ghoul snatched her off a side-street several nights ago, Lily's battered body made it clear Serena would now be looking at a fly-eaten corpse. She could not scream. She could only hum angrily through an inflamed nose, pound soles into the drywall; all cries for help were drowned out by the rushing steam.

It meant nothing to her. Not now – not in the midst of a mission. There was no stewing on tousled locks, freckles or familiar lankiness. The dejected, trampled creature swinging here was no more Lily Harris than a strip of cow meat. She was a maimed reminder of that frigid Anarch cellar, the consequences of bad choices; she was a gruesome portent of what might someday come.

The Ventrue, without a word to spare, hefted her Kahr. Lily flinched as though she half-expected Ms. Woeburne would shoot her neatly in the forehead.

_Bang. _A single bullet burst the chain link and plugged into pipe insulation, where it stuck. The girl collapsed in a wet heap. Freezing water showered them both, spurting like garden sprinklers. Harris could not react; she lay on the ground, withered into a ball, unable to feel temperature changes. Bristling beneath a shield of outerwear, Serena stepped through ribbons of H20, squatted, and pulled Lily halfway upright by a fistful of hood – shivering, doubled-over, joints clicking audibly as they were set right for the first time since her capture. She said nothing. She ripped the tape from the fledgling's chin, strong adhesive taking off large flakes of chapped lip skin.

It sounded as though her rescuee tried to ask "What are you doing here?"Chattering teeth, delirium and stomach growls made the utterance incomprehensible, though. She distantly recognized her old employer, felt remote emotions with no analytical powers to back them up. The neonate stared at Ms. Woeburne with wild eyes, deathly white inside their sockets; she was glazed in the dumbfounded look of a torture victim. Shock subdued her as though a gong had been walloped into the girl's skull. Harris could not hear how loud it was in here, how the pipes roared; she could neither hear her flimsy voice croak, nor could she process that her leaden tongue and trembling mouth failed to form any real words. Serena doubted Lily's faculties were alert enough understand even basic instructions at this point, let alone an answer to _that_ whopper of a question. The Seneschal momentarily regretted removing her gag; inhumanity aside, it ensured a quiet escape.

"_Shh_!" LaCroix's Childe ordered, placing a sharp finger to pursed lips. The reeling thin-blood might not have wholly grasped their current situation, but she could appreciate that gesture, at least. Harris obediently shut up.

Testing the only other exit and finding it locked, Woeburne jostled Lily through the crater she'd made, bowing out as puddles began to collect underfoot. She tangled one hand in the Caitiff's scruff to steer her, nudging to and fro as one might coach a dog in leash-training. The results were not impressive. Vertebrae stood sharply along the younger Kindred's skeletal neck, aching when tripped by Serena's cold digits. Every few feet, one of her wobbling hips buckled, them both stumbling across spotted linoleum. The Ventrue was barely able to usher her around the spilt vending machine. Moving exhausted her. Only yards into their getaway, Harris had begun to slump and lag; she would fall, stare blanking itself, muscles melting off their tendons. The fledgling lapsed periodically into a strange state of torpor that hit in shutter waves. Hauling her out of it – slapping stupid, slackening cheeks – began to have no effect. Ms. Woeburne was struggling to drag her companion down a corridor with insufficient lights and slippery flooring. Hollering at the child was no use; here was a supernatural drained of life-force, having been strung up and prevented from feeding for an inordinate amount of time. Unable to frenzy – lineage diluted – fatigue instead triggered temporary periods of paralysis, uncontrollable twitching, and foam flecks dotting a bone-dry mouth.

They could not continue like this. Every other step, the lesser vampire tripped – body liquefying, consciousness plummeting to ten seconds of vegetation. It was useless. Seneschal Los Angeles was not about to toss this wretch over one shoulder and bolt out, a dangerous journey full of stunts and Brujah heroics. _'Oh, no. Not likely. That wouldn't do, at all.' _She certainly was not about to share blood with a traitor – no matter how familiar her tremors were, how those ghost eyes begged for love. It was too intimate an act and Woeburne never was a creature for intimacy. She did not have that depth of sympathy left in her. She did not care what it implied.

Instead, Serena sat her crumpling charge down in a dark corner of hallway beside the morgue entrance with stern commands to "stay put." Lily, who couldn't fully comprehend, interpreted this as abandonment and began to cry – tearless, silent sobs. There was a time Ms. Woeburne might have cared. Tonight was not it. She stalked away, coolly and with decisive purpose. The preserved John Does stowed nearby would not page security.

Proving her jaunt through those computer archives hadn't been a total waste, Serena breached the nearest supply freezer and brought out two tidy crimson packages. They were iced in pretty, hygienic rows along frozen metal shelves. Covered with rime, they looked startlingly like fresh fish, and the Ventrue checked labels to be sure this stock was human. _B+_. Satisfied, she clacked back through the bleak blue walls and tightly shut both heavy double-doors. Frigid air puffed out in coils, dampening her stockings. The handle frostbit her hand.

Quarry found, Ms. Woeburne returned to Harris and dropped the chilled IV bags at her feet with a juicy '_scthack_.' She did not need to give any commands this time. Lily, crunched mutely against two adjacent walls, saw them hit; she pounced upon the first pouch like a Serengeti film, blunt teeth ripping into plastic. Nutrients went down in greedy, covetous laps. When every drop had been licked away, the fledgling – suddenly ravenous, frazzled, panting with an open mouth – snatched her second bag and bit it no differently than one might a peeled orange. Three massive gulps and the entire container had been drained. Serena simply stood back. When Harris looked up again, drooling scarlet, there was clarity pushing itself up through the feralness of a feeding Kindred. She was gasping, blinking rapidly, trying to shake the cobwebs off her waking brain.

"Come on," Woeburne yapped, seized Lily by one frail arm and towed her down the eerie corridor.

They encountered some difficulty with the stairs. Beaten legs buckled helplessly at each step, depth perception wrecked, too feeble to lift her foot high enough. After four tries, Serena cursed, maneuvered Lily's long arms around her neck, and lifted the girl along her back. They were an awkward sight, no doubt; the thin-blood was taller, toes hitting linoleum awkwardly as Woeburne climbed. _'I'm lucky the wretch never ate a damn thing in life,' _she thought, gripping a weedy wrist that hung at her collarbone, feeling Harris's protruding ribcage poke her spine. That small boon was something to be grateful for now.

'_That, and for these...' _(Might as well hand it to herself. People kept telling the Ventrue so, anyway.) _'…magnificent calves.'_

Precarious stairwell behind them, Serena plopped Lily back down, then glanced up the short passageway through which she'd arrived. Babies wailed somewhere towards the building's front. A senior citizen grumbled about acid reflux. Monitors beeped steadily away, assuring the night staff there were no emergencies underway. Santa Monica Clinic's main floors appeared to be chugging along smoothly, unaware of all the commotion underground, but being spotted smuggling a sickly woman out was unacceptable. Particularly when that woman had blood smeared all over her collar and chin.

Without a word, Ms. Woeburne spun Lily around – she had returned to cowering, now, stunned silent. The Seneschal shrugged brusquely out of her trench and tossed it over Harris's lean figure, yanking up that filthy sweater cowl from beneath. No autumn hair, no dappled cheeks… Not exactly a disguise, but the ratty hood would cover a short dash to her waiting Jaguar. There was no resistance whatsoever as she applied the sloppy camouflage. The neonate let herself be manhandled like a toddler in a dressing room.

Deeming her smuggleable, Serena gave Lily a firm bump towards the exit – plain, dark, framed by the moth-swarmed single bulb outside. They moved for it at a calm but focused pace.

Problems begot by a year's worth of Jyhad could not be resolved without kinks, though. Tonight had been a little too easy – a little too convenient. That lock had greased too fast; the damsel had been sprung too swiftly; the list of challenges between Square One and Goal dwindled suspiciously fast, suffering restricted to a bare minimum. Hurtles were not enough. Karma demanded stumbling blocks. Serena did not really know why she was doing this –some sort of bizarre and pointless attempt to prove something to herself, to alter the state of the world. She wouldn't sacrifice her health to lug some imprudent Caitiff out of harm's way. Santa Monica Clinic was no glorious hill to die on; just so, Ms. Woeburne had decided beforehand that if the risk grew too great, she'd not punish herself for aborting the undertaking.

But after so many small triumphs – with such a short distance left between herself and the desolate side-street – Seneschal LA was irate to see that silly ghoul swing open a closet door behind them.

He kicked it more than swung it, really… a melodramatic action that made the Ventrue skitter beside her sorry refugee, afraid someone important might've overheard. At least one skin layer had been scrubbed off the boy's face. Bloodshot eyes barely showed their irises, full to bursting. Locks dripped water. His sockets were swollen so, he resembled an unhappy red panda, loping forward down this empty vestibule. For the past fifteen minutes, since Serena stormed in, the poor sap had been frantically flushing his tear ducts in a janitorial sink; he now toted a wrench in hand, that dull nametag glistening: _Vandal Cleaver_. He looked pleased and enraged in tandem. He looked criminally insane. She could see the rust on his chosen weapon – a bludgeon made out of old, heavy steel.

'_Some people really don't know when to quit,' _Ms. Woeburne thought, yanked Lily behind her, and tore the pistol from its sleeve.

Her second bullet of the night zipped straight into his frontal lobe. The silencer did its job.

Serena didn't bother lollygagging about to see brains fly. Wondering dryly if she'd be caught by her own cameras, the woman sprinted outside, shoving Harris three steps ahead and into an open alley.

They didn't run. But they did walk very quickly.

**III.**

Lily had not said much during their ride to East Los Angeles. She sat in the back seat, subdued, mouthing words with no voice beneath them. That was fine with Ms. Woeburne. Of everything they'd faced in the past several hours – interrogator batons and Anarch bullying – this had been the most nerve-wracking portion of all. The Ventrue could still feel residual anger spoil within her throat, collect in the rise of her tongue. Teeth fit snugly around it to collar any delayed accusations. Scolding the sullen, bomb-shocked girl wouldn't mean a thing. Her repentance was in the stillness. It was in the way her thighs shifted a crunchy towel that had been stuffed in Serena's trunk. It was evident in how she dodged those reserved vert eyes against the rearview as her driver questioned, cool and impatient, exactly what had happened in Santa Monica's hospital vault.

They asked many things – none of which Harris understood – but mostly, they had hit her. She did not know why anyone would have reasons to rip a thin-blood off the sidewalk around _Surfside Diner_. All this browbeaten youngling could offer was her account of the Sabbat raid that tore up that desolate stretch of beach. _They_ – the red-haired man with the twitching lip and round schizoid eyes, a handful of his cronies – kept probing about it: _Why were you there? When? What did you hear? Who did you see?_ A sole survivor had no information to satisfy. When the fledgling swore she had not been involved, he accused her of lying. They introduced to Lily's skin an assortment of improvised penalties… two-by-fours, industrial-sized syringes, hoof files, curling irons, scalding pots of water. Once, after denying she knew who Bertram Tung was (let alone his whereabouts), a pale-faced lackey had plunged her head into an icy bathtub and dropped in his electric razor.

They thought she was culpable. They thought she was an Anarch spy. Someone must have, at least; it was the only grounds to keep her alive.

"And did you tell them anything significant? Anything at all?" Woeburne's lips constricted the syllables, rigid with disdain and anxiety. It was a useless demand. Harris's helpless expression told her that the neonate couldn't even begin to identify what _significant_ might mean for Kindred.

"I don't…"

The Ventrue puffed shortly through her nose. Dark hair curled to tickle both ears. "Never mind. Best just forget it all, then," she said, made a wide left, and drove on. Lily's perplexed, wounded face screamed of unscheduled visits to Sebastian's office, a phone call made from a pickup truck, and déjà vu. The thin-blood barely seemed corporeal – shrunken, marooned, leeched of her life. Serena wondered if this is what all the adoring followers Nines Rodriguez sacrificed came to look like. She wondered about Sebastian's other Childer. She wrestled the stick and accelerated, feeling ill.

"Listen – I don't have much time with you." Ms. Woeburne could not warm her tone. Not for this old sore. "Don't say anything more. Just tell me: where do you want to go?"

The girl was staring through everything around them.

"Home," she said.

Though it was not exactly a smart contingency plan, the Seneschal took her there.

Twenty-five minutes later, a black Jaguar pulled rudely up to the curb outside those tiny studio apartments on Garfield Street. Its façade was unspectacular – brick, limited accommodations, cramped rooms and thrumming washing machines. The interior Serena remembered very well. Tacky patterns, inexpensive hardwood, a lopsided table and a rocky futon couch. Unmistakably proletariat. Yet it glowed faintly, an unguarded candle – an inglorious cranny, certainly, but one that radiated shelter. Home… perhaps the title was deserved. This humble residence had provided haven against Anarch kidnappers for a disoriented Prince's progeny; it now beckoned Lily in the same way, simple and clean and wonderfully uncomplicated. Wetness began to dot her brownish eyes. Scrawny legs shook under itchy cover. The young woman was gazing at it like a stranded phantom.

She released the gas pedal, wrenched the parking break into place, and sat.

Lily did not move. Serena wouldn't feel enough to encourage her.

It was an age later when the fledgling finally whispered: "I should go."

"Yes," Ms. Woeburne said, frightened by how deftly Sebastian LaCroix clicked out of her open mouth. Both white hands squeezed the leathered wheel. "You should."

Harris wrapped the crude blanket around her waist and made to exit. The Ventrue watched, unspoken, sampling this rare sensation of not knowing what she thought. Serena almost didn't remember to tell her. She interrupted their awkward goodbye with a last-minute cough; Lily's fingers grazed the door.

"Pay attention. There is one more thing I can do for you. But in order for it to work, you must follow every instruction I give you and follow them on time." A pause. She breathed. "There is an envelope in the seat carriage behind me. Take it out." Compliant rummaging signaled the child's willingness to cooperate; it also distracted her, keeping their eyes from meeting restlessly in this confined space. "Yes, that's the one. Here is where you must listen closely. Inside are two tickets for a seven o'clock flight out of LAX to Portland. You will be on that plane tomorrow. Do not argue with me. Just believe it when I say that you can _not_ stay here. If you miss this chance, someone will kill you, and I will not help you again. Do you understand?"

Lily had lifted the unsealed flap. She blinked down at printed vouchers, fingers skirting over them. Vacancy quickly turned to bewilderment; the Caitiff rifled through bills, fresh and bright green. "What-?"

"Three hundred dollars," Serena confirmed. "Do what you will with it. I don't know where you are planning on going – and furthermore, I don't care – but that should get you partway."

The girl hovered. She cracked and shut her jaw. She stared.

"Serena…"

"I don't want your gratitude," the Ventrue snapped, lashing out with a wicked glare in response to that horrible sound, that combination of weakness and bare-bones regret. There was too much emotion in the blurt of her name. It was threatening. It disturbed. "I want you to go."

Soul sunken, Lily left her car in a daze.

Ms. Woeburne watched her shuffle corpselike across the pavement, clinging onto low-grade cotton, stepping into streetlamps. She watched her stand alone beneath the too-bright cone of stoop light, fingers shaking as they punched a number into the weathered callbox. She watched the passions register across that bruised and beaten face; she watched her hesitate. She watched one word collapse from her aching throat. She watched the energy exchange, disbelief and euphoria mixed with whipped feelings – how neither one of them could voice it. She watched until the front doors buzzed open, and Lily Harris disappeared through them, bare feet slipping back into a squandered life restored.

She sat.

"Suppose I'll go home, too," Serena said to no one.

**IV.**

Ms. Woeburne knew something was horribly wrong the moment her tires touched Olympic Boulevard. It was not an intangible sense of dread that irked the Ventrue, inexplicable and mysterious. Nor was it solely a product of all this unusual automobile congestion that choked roads into the heart of downtown Los Angeles. But there the worries were, spine-tingling and fizzing nastily in her gut. They clambered atop one another as Serena drew nearer to her suite… that same unsettling feeling of fire trucks whizzing by you on the way to Monday morning work. Despite the illogicality and unlikelihood, you cannot help but fear for your sweet, innocent little home. You are required to picture shingles and flower pots roaring up in malicious flame. There was just that _feeling_.

And there was the police tape.

Empire Arms Hotel had been cordoned off by squad cars and rolls of bright yellow plastic, large cones redirecting thru traffic. City trucks towed staff vehicles to safety, apartments cleared out; those large bulbs at its entrance were on full-blast. Yet she could see no outside damage or telltale bloodstains. Red bricks were silent and unrevealing. Broad-shouldered guards unfazed by dark evenings stood on either side of the locked main lobby doors. Before the alarmed Seneschal could get close enough to venture any educated guesses, Serena was stopped by a district sergeant waving off anxious civilians. Harried and displeased, he refused to explain what had happened, saying nothing when Ms. Woeburne panned down a window to ask. The man merely clapped an orangutan palm on her car hood and jerked one pudgy thumb away from the barricaded parking lot.

She eked her Jaguar into a nearby wedge of side-street, pinching between an SUV and someone's racer-red Cadillac. Evacuated residents and a handful of gawkers loitered nervously along the sidewalk, arms crossed, mumbling discontentedly. Serena spoke briefly with a few bystanders, searching for useful information, and was disappointed. The most these collective fretters could offer were a few overnight patrons who heard gunshots and general irritation over being displaced. Families complained vocally about needing a safe alternative; travelling businesspeople demanded refunds. Ms. Woeburne idled amongst them, chewing on her bottom lip, before deciding she ought to work past those sentries for some forensic science of her own. It wouldn't be difficult Dominating individual beat-cops, but she had concerns about high-rankers and wasn't quite sure how a woman like her might freely traverse their crime scene. Neither shooting servicemen nor getting shot by said servicemen was on the evening's agenda. One coldblooded murder per day – that seemed like a safe guideline.

More than that, though, the Ventrue felt it might be unwise to push her luck any farther tonight than she already had. After successful heroics in Santa Monica, mucking up now would be quite a shame. There was no real reason to suspect anything awry – no evidence this misdeed had been anything but human and ordinary. Perhaps she should just wait for five-oh to clear out. Or, better yet, arrange for backup shelter – just in case their investigation ran into the morning hours.

Someone tapped her shoulder.

"Who-? _Beckett_?" fell out of Ms. Woeburne's dropped jaw like a squawk. Parsley eyes furrowed at him, forgetting her manners. The Gangrel forced a small grin 'hello.'

Nothing about him seemed out-of-place, Serena thought; even with Ankaran Sarcophagus research filling up his schedule, the historian didn't look overworked. Black hair boxed in narrow coral eyes and that thin grimace-smile. He tipped the akubra brim to her without any genuine gladness supporting this gesture. Nevertheless, Seneschal LA swung out her hand to shake his. It was a pump full of manufactured testosterone, all enthusiasm and overconfident executive, just as market trainers taught their female interns… but the buoyancy didn't reach her vacant gaze. She knew she looked flat-ironed.

Beckett's appearance hadn't frightened her, per se; he seemed amiable enough. There were no bitten-back scowls that suggested he was displeased with the Camarilla or angry with her, personally. The scholar looked very unspectacular, actually… as though he'd just dipped out of his lab for a quick breath of fresh air. And yet there was an odd strained quality about his long face. She could not put her finger on it. Grimness, almost, but confused by something else. Something…

"I'm happy to see you, but… er. Surprised to," Woeburne added. She blinked at him, not bothering to mask her befuddled tone. He stared calmly back. "What brings you here? I'm… well. I'm sorry I can't offer you more hospitality at the moment, but as you've noticed…" A helpless wave towards the undulating red-and-blue blockades.

The Gangrel winced. His good-natured nonchalance was underscored by discomfort. "Don't worry yourself over it. Let's, ah… let's move somewhere less conspicuous, shall we?"

Serena followed him down the block at a decent clip, uncertainties increasing with each step Beckett did not explain. Only when they had left the thoroughfare behind did he speak. The man's news was swift, curt, serious.

It kicked her solar plexus to her bellybutton.

"Someone has killed my poor friend Johansen," he said, cringing – an expression that was chillingly, brutally real. "And I think I know whodunit."

The Prince's Childe wished she had coughed up a conspiracy theory of her own on this startling development – wished she had been concrete enough to say "I'm so sorry to hear that," or at least express a micron of remorse for the slaughtered old researcher. She would've killed to contribute in some meaningful way. But the report had seized her so suddenly and at such an inopportune time that Ms. Woeburne could think of nothing at all. Serena halted and gaped at him. She let both tense shoulders fall, sucking air into her stomach, bracing against the bad omen. Beckett saw her sober reaction and gave a nod of agreement.

"Before I go on, there are a few things you must know about Dr. Johansen. I wasn't exaggerating when I told you he is… well, _was_ until tonight… the world's foremost authority on ancient Assyria." High praise from any Kindred intellectual, particularly this one. The Gangrel adjusted his glasses, a grave, bleak motion. He sighed heavily. "That he is no longer with us is more problematic than you know. So understand that I don't mean to discredit Ingvar's scholastic worth when I say this, but when he died, we lost something even more important than all his expertise." A pause. Orange eyes looked at her with dour awareness. "Do you remember our visit to the Chicago Museum, Ms. Woeburne? The artifact I gathered there – I had suspected it might be related to this sarcophagus due to a few similar deity markings. I assure you, I wasn't sure how – or even if my suspicions were anything but over-analytical hot air. Johansen had the critical eye to answer this curiosity for me. Once he returned from the dig site, I asked him to take the thing for further study. This is why I needed Ingvar close-at-hand, and this is where the artifact was." Beckett's stare was terrifying in its severity. "It is gone now."

Residual blood drained from Serena's ash-white face.

"Was it necessary?" was all she could ask.

"Therein we have the issue. I don't know, and I expect he was the only person with a strong hunch. Worse still," the Gangrel added, shaking his head of onyx hair, "our clumsy perpetrator has also taken Johansen's notes. While I'm not exactly certain how close he was to making sense of the piece, I am sure that _I_ am the only one who stands a fair chance of deciphering them. What a mess." (Another foiled sigh – that was twice in the past two minutes. Surely this was a dire sign.) "Don't take my word for it, though; see for yourself."

He reached into his burlap bag, pulled out a BlackBerry, and passed it to Ms. Woeburne; she watched the video clip with silence and unspoken dismay.

"This is the same footage being combed apart by the LAPD as we speak," he told her, noting the way sharp features sagged towards Seneschal LA's chin. "It was recorded roughly four hours ago. As you can see, the five young men involved entered directly through Empire's main doors and opened fire. They made it up the stairs without much trouble… trained, perhaps, but not ghouls. Seems that their business was isolated to Johansen's room and – I'm sure you can imagine well enough for yourself – they made short work of him. Filled the old man with lead, sorry to say. Certainly a planned attack."

Serena swallowed, mouth pursing; she wiped a hand nervously down her nose. Quick stock was taken of that besieged foyer, terra cotta now smashed by bullets. Lavish lace curtains hung raggedly from their banister. Unfortunately, this security tape lacked sound. In lieu of dialogue, Ms. Woeburne looked for physical identifiers, scanning hair color and facial composition. Olive eyes raced over each figure, charting height and weight variances. They were startlingly young. Given the limitations of silent film and concealing clothes, the most noticeable connection between these anonymous black-clad gunners was ethnicity: every party member appeared to be of some vague East Asian descent. It was rickety information at best. Still, with no other options, she took what few clues were available. "The jackets – I recognize the insignia. We should check Chinatown for leads. If I could just ID the sign…"

Beckett tilted his head, hat casting shadows over the man's long snout. He looked thoughtful. "I already did," was the abrupt answer. Serena listened as her companion continued, cuing up side-by-side photographs of the same red symbol – first emblazoned on a coat shoulder, then spray-painted upon a noodle shop's door. Bright, swooping lines clashed aggressively over a dry old marking as though to blot it out of existence. His caption read: _Wah Ching?_. The scandal clicked.

"It's well-known that the Tong wars in Los Angeles are Ming-Xiao's pastime," Woeburne said, back muscles painfully tight. She did not specialize in the politics of Chinatown, its faction breaks, or specific branches – she was Sebastian's Anarch monitor, not Kuei-Jin detective – but that haughty "priestess" had been toying with their local criminal organizations since her arrival last year. After a troublesome few months, an executed leader and sudden community push against mob violence, the local Wah Ching had been nearly on the brink of exile to San Francisco. A few bankrolls and blood dolls later, though – a short matter of weeks – and they were swimming in contraband arms again, digging firmly into heroin production, systematically wrecking any encroaching cliques. There remained little doubt in her mind. Though Serena was aware of how humans tended to underestimate coincidence – an unfortunate tendency superstitious Kindred amplified with their own cult lore – the evidence stacked too high. This reeked of Cathayan interference.

"It's Kuei-jin doing," she said, tongue tasting incredibly cold. The woman's chest began to sting. _'Dear God.'_ What did this mean? "I am very sure."

"I admire your confidence, young one," the Gangrel hummed, compliment rolling off his tongue in that usual indecipherable way, landing somewhere ambiguous on the scale between compliment and insult. Ms. Woeburne didn't care. Her insides were panging. Her esophagus closed. He kept talking, though only snippets of advice really sank in. It was hard to focus beneath the weight of withheld knowledge and paranoia frenzying upon one another; it was hard to think when a renowned Noddist investigator looked so uncomfortable beneath his mask of arrogant calm. The shallow wrinkles around Beckett's jowl smoothed out as their tendons pulled. "But don't be so quick to point-and-shoot. Your Sire has been very impatient. And this is why I needed to speak with you, Seneschal, about our research arrangement."

Disquieted as she was, Serena had enough corporate sensibilities to recognize a major debacle when she saw it.

And she had plenty of experience with Temper Tantrum à la Sebastian LaCroix.

Political negotiations being useless, the 'beg' response snapped on. Ms. Woeburne pleaded their case with an insistent tone and desperate set to her dark lips. "Beckett, _please_. We are so close to knowing. I realize this must be a horrible imposition for you, and I certainly don't mean to minimize that… but so many of Mr. LaCroix's arrangements were riding on you being here. More than his arrangements. Really, you're instrumental to us. You said it yourself just a moment ago. Without your expertise, we stand no chance of understanding how-"

"I'm not sure you wholly appreciate the situation yet, my young Ventrue. And, until I'm sure _I_ do, think I'll play it safe. You may tell your Prince I am taking a leave of absence. When I find out more, I may be back." He managed one reserved, two-second smile. But it came nowhere near his marble orange eyes. Her heart continued to plunge – a steady, lilting tumble to both feet. This couldn't be happening. _Not now_. "I also may have use for those resources you offered… so please, mind your mailbox."

"Beckett, I-"

"Should be going, I'd wager. Take care, Ms. Woeburne. And… be cautious around Sebastian LaCroix." There was no time for handshakes or more imploring faces. He left her with that.

Serena stood on the cement, staring at nothing, teeth pressing together within her pointed jaw, backbone crushed by what she knew.

Everything this Childe had learned about tradition, species warfare and Cainite diplomacy banished the scenario. Yet there it was: snaking icicle fingers around reason. Much as the Seneschal forbade herself from delving into this horrible notion – raw, dangerous speculation – she could not demolish that deathly air of _possibility_. Her late-night conferences with Prince Los Angeles rippled through the corporal's mind, a wet finger dragged through phonebook binding. Phrases clanged alarm bells. Counsel hauled rakelike up each piece of her spine. Loyalties screamed that it could not be true; she was a hopeless idiot for even considering such a preposterous scheme. It wasn't possible. And yet the worst sensation by far was not her flimsy confidence, not these ulcer kicks in her gut, not the subjectivity of nepotism. The worst part of this all was that it _was_ possible. It was, and as feverishly as the Ventrue wished she could forget, dreamt seriously of a Tremere mind-wipe:

There it still was.

Two nights ago, amidst demeaning remarks about Chicago Camarilla drones, she had told her Sire about the museum.

It seemed like nothing. He hadn't interrogated her; he hadn't raised any suspicions about Beckett smuggling artifacts. Intimidation tactics and prying never entered the conversation. Serena had brought it up, in fact – a laughable anecdote from her Midwest experience.

The Seneschal's head was pounding.

Someone else must have found out. There must have been another weak link – a spy by Lake Michigan, a son-of-a-bitch Kuei-jin scout. Ms. Woeburne had told no one because the jaunt through those ancient bones and storage closets seemed irrelevant. She could not imagine why anyone might suppose otherwise. Beckett was brilliant, of course, but his historical quirks were far from secret. Surely it wasn't unordinary for him to poke around inane collections now and then. Surely a magistrate like Sebastian, no matter how clever and unconventional he could be in Jyhad, had never considered parlaying with…

_Shit_.

She wouldn't allow herself to think about that. This was someone else's accident – a moronic, neonate mistake. Serena had nothing to do with it – guiltless because she didn't own the power or the data. _'Dear God, don't let Prince wonder if this was my fault…' _She hadn't even known about Ingvar Johansen; she hadn't known he'd been commissioned for one covert purpose, that he might be killed for it, that he'd taken the ugly disk – whatever it was. This was a misunderstanding. This was a grave control error that had fallen in Cathayan claws because it had nowhere else to go. There was nothing more to remember.

Except: _"Let me tell you a secret about playing this game, Childe.__"_

Serena clutched at her neck.

A siren echoed down the city asphalt. Investigators milled outside, laden with windbreakers; journalists whipping open recorders were forced out. The Ventrue folded both arms around herself and glanced towards her home. Empire Arms Hotel looked like a fortress. Squad cars idled outside, sleek and stern, recently waxed. Authority clout ebbed from polished metal. They were still howling, still flashing colors through the cold. Static drowned impatient car horns. Somewhere, beyond the city din, moonlight chased gunsmoke into crisp winter air.

She waited as long as she could.

She opened her phone.


	68. Into the Sea

**Into the Sea**

"Just the both of you? That'll be about, uh…" David Hatter's nose wrinkled as he calculated, dimples bared in the doughy contours of his face. "Four hundred for the week. Fifty square if you just want it for tonight. Twenty bucks'll get you an hour."

The Dark-Haired Man counted off fifty dollars with stiff, anxious fingers. He tried to swallow the sour taste filming his tongue – tried to ignore the dubious look of Luckee Star Motel's concierge, whose gaze drifted to his female companion, gauging their intent. The pistols strapped beneath his shirt felt unusually bulky. The fireplace crackling warmly just beyond this dingy lobby's furniture increased his apprehension. Everything was cast in tones of muted yellow, ratty red and green glass; a fake-gold chandelier hung overhead, spinning heavily on its chain. The color scheme in this corner of town visibly worsened an already shitty night. It fought too hard to be pretentious, feel welcoming; Hollywood was a poor place to lay low and an even poorer place to strategize. He pulled out a last shaky single and flattened everything onto the polished countertop, glancing over one shoulder to where the Red Girl stood with arms crossed.

Hatter, a rotund human being with wild brown curls and a just-disheveled-enough countenance, swiped the bills to deposit in his cash register. The man was confident stoutness; a careful bright center lingered in bland grey eyes as he reached under the desk to for their room key, short fingers groping. Luckee Star often housed clientele some uptown joints might consider 'unsavory.' Malcontents skulking in for private meetings – whatever the nature, be it meth or sex or criminal activity – were standard fare. It took a lot more to unnerve Dave. He'd seen some scary shit working these late nights. Fistfights were commonplace. Sexual assault checked in at a close second. Last week, three kids OD'd in a suite; the smell of their bodies made him call for police. He even saw some raving nutjob from Compton try to bite somebody's neck open, once, sending the housekeeper screaming Czech curses and 9-1-1. A more housebound guy would've quit Hollywood's mean streets and entered telecommuting by this particular point. Barring junkies pulling guns on him, though, the aspiring writer honestly didn't mind all that much. Material like this was creative gold. Real powerhouse of moral platitudes.

Still, something small and quiet within David Hatter told him to keep eyes trained on these strangers – the dark-haired man and vicious red girl. A tiny voice, a muffled one – but very, very sincere.

He wasn't sure why. This pair didn't seem all that shady, even. The disgruntled redhead – top-heavy, aggressive and dressed-down in baggy clothes – certainly wasn't a prostitute. 'C_ute, nice set of jugs; bit short for my tastes.'_ The man didn't seem like a pimp or a john; his blue eyes were too clear for an addict. _'Good-looking guy; little rough around the edges.' _He leaned on the counter with hands covered in old rings. Dave scaneed for track marks but couldn't find any. The Red Girl was pacing, grimacing, crimson lips twisting over muttered swears. Little feet covered in flat soles smashed down the ocher shag carpet. She looked younger than him, but not enough to be scandalous. Compared to the drunken kids and cokeheads that usually belly-crawled in here, they were a handsome couple.

Something still seemed off, though… an edge of wrongness he could not shake that left him unable to explain any further. They were sulking, vivid contrasts that ebbed danger sense. Though Hatter couldn't put his finger on what exactly troubled him, he did note how odd these two looked together. It was eerie. There was an air of disquiet seeping from them. They did not argue, negotiate, cuddle drunkenly or sneak immature ass pinches when the concierge turned around. They did not speak to each other. They _did_ occasionally throw tense, unhappy glances across the entrance lounge – peripheral reassurances that failed at soothing anyone. Their stillness gave him the creepiest vibes of all; it was as though both were waiting for armed death to burst through Luckee Star's decorative double-doors. Hard to describe. He'd seen expressions like that in war flicks and psycho-thrillers, but not very often down here.

Hatter could've laughed. He'd definitely been working on _Humanity vs. the Vampire Lords _too many hours with too little sleep. Oh, well. A dedicated artist endured whatever paranoias cropped up to whip out a masterpiece screenplay. (Speaking of, he'd have to see about contacting Julius again on Saturday. The winter was getting thicker over LA, and he hadn't managed to locate that weird, brilliant brainstormer in almost two months. _'Hope he didn't skip town.'_)

Dave found the right chain and passed it over a coffee-stained clipboard. "Here you go, Sir. Room 2A. Just sign right there. This time tomorrow your rent's up, so you'll have to see me for an extension. No, no. Right there – last line."

The Dark-Haired Man scribbled something illegible, took the key, and shouldered through the archway. The Red Girl hustled after him. Her backpack bounced.

"No smoking!" Dave threw in. "I don't care what else you do, but nothing that'll light up the curtains. We're serious."

They were already through the doors.

Damsel slogged along after Nines with JanSport straps cutting uncomfortably into her shoulders. He was walking at a fast clip, all business and emergency mentality. It was about three steps too quick for her to naturally keep up with, zippers jangling, items sloshing about in pockets. The Den Mother nearly lost her clipped Browning. She caught it against a square of belt, juggling, barely able to keep the firearm from clattering on Luckee Star's rusty pool tiles. Rodriguez didn't wait. Nozzle stuffed into her pants, the Brujah female trotted to catch up, following him into dreary Room 2A and locking its storm door behind him.

The single was what one could expect of low-budget Hollywood motels: cramped, bland hues, wrinkled cream bedspread and a tiny bathroom window with blurred glass that looked more like a boat hatch. Bedside tables boasted cigar char marks. A desk no doubt saved from somebody's alleyway held one depressing lamp with tears in its faceless yellow shade. The mothballed closet was a perfect size for discreetly storing hookers before sting cops rudely kicked in your hanky-panky. A crappy TV with rabbit ears – for God's sake – was sitting on someone's wood-stained dresser. Hell. If Damsel hopped onto the toilet seat and spread her arms out, both hands bumped brown-striped wallpaper. Made Nines's shitty apartment seem like Buckingham Palace by comparison. Now, she wasn't exactly the princess and the fucking pea – your hygiene standards couldn't be too terribly high as keeper of _The Last Round_ – but this place crawled like lice. A certain Den Mother would be pissed as a shrieking bitch if she woke up tomorrow night with bedbugs nibbling her scalp.

Provided they were still here. Provided a certain spokesman didn't start twitching and frothing at the mouth and claim someone was hunting them down. Fuck it all, she liked having Rodriguez to herself for once in a blue goddamn moon, but not under present circumstances. Not because everyone else from the original caste was dead, in hiding or MIA. Their leader had slammed down the bar telephone about thirty minutes ago, barked "We're going!" and simply thundered out; Damsel frantically raked some supplies together, not knowing what that meant, barely making it to the truck before he blew out of there – unexplained, tight-lipped.

She'd been understandably pissed off over the whole venture. Nines wasn't talking, even when his surrogate Childe began to cuss and holler in earnest. He just told her to pipe the fuck down and give him a minute to think. _"I've got to think. Wait. I've got to figure this out."_

The young Brujah hoped Nines would be done thinking soon, because she was beyond irritated by this particular hour – she was getting slightly scared – and his pacing to and fro between the telephone and empty mini-cooler didn't work to reassure. He leant forward on the wall, palms pressed into peeling paint. He banged on the threshold with a side of his fist. He collapsed heavily on an edge of desktop, fingers sinking into ebony hair. Damsel watched about ten minutes of this before she couldn't stomach it anymore and began demanding answers.

"At least tell me what the fuck happened," the Den Mother gnarred, folding both arms, standing awkwardly out of his way. She dumped her satchel next to a cabinet leg, wedging it beneath the bed frame. "Who were you talking to? What did they say? If I'm gonna' get crammed in this sack-of-shit with you, freaking out and all, I deserve to know why."

"It's not who I talked to. It's who I didn't talk to." Nines was still slouched on the desk, elbows sinking into his knees, nails bristling black tendrils. He didn't look at her. He pulled at them. His voice was ragged, strained and taut enough to snap. It was that _feeling_. Ice, sinking lungs, trail of dread up the hair along his neck… same feeling he had when the Cam torched St. Louis out all those years ago. And when Magpie died. And when Rochelle had her hand on the back of his head, cold breath, white teeth. _'You wouldn't never leave me, Slick, would you?'_ "Bernardino. I think he's dead. Called six times tonight and I can't get a hold of him. Had him on foot with Chino in Santa Monica, too. Fuck."

Damsel, arms crossed under her breasts, blinked. She stared at him. Rodriguez could feel it; the Anarch didn't glance up to meet those wide green eyes and raised brows. It was a well-known image… Little Red tongue-tied, blown back, trying to think up a reason why the worst couldn't possibly happen. He understood she didn't want to assume disaster. But he hated how stupid she looked.

"That's jumping pretty damn fast to conclusions," the girl announced, a flat squawk of a voice. "This is the fucking city. For all we know, that asshole could be-"

"He's dead," Nines told her. Damsel stared.

"So what the fuck are we doing hiding here, then?" the Den Mother asked after what seemed like a decade.

He breathed out, a weighty sound. He thought about it. She waited.

"We need bodies. I'm calling San Fran. See if we can get Christie, Deacon and some of their people over to LA this week, at least," he mumbled, lurching off the desk, sliding the telephone off its wall hook. The cord dangled. A dial-tone buzzed loudly against the Brujah's ear, receiver scraping the stubble on his chin. Grey skin looked spectacularly pale – a Kindred poisoned with the knowledge of their own mortality. "It's gonna' likely bring an incredible shit storm down here," Nines gruffed, to himself and to the band logo on Damsel's stomach. He swallowed. Security was deteriorating too fast; weak links made it impossible to keep in-step, to predict. Isaac lingered nearby, and a lockbox of Isaac's cash burning holes under his soldier's floorboards. There was absolutely no leeway for sucker punches. There was no opportunity to get scared. "But I don't have any other options at this point."

"Jack could—"

"No. No, he can't. I don't have time to deal with that old bastard's 'renegade' shit. Stay the fuck away from Jack; do you hear me? You don't trust anyone who isn't in this room. We're in a corner," he said, eyes boring vacantly somewhere near her naval, not caring whether or not she understood, barely remembering to speak in the collective, his tongue withdrawing behind his fangs. "We're out."

The Den Mother felt sick. Watching their chief's nerves fray terrified; she wanted to walk across this lackluster hotel room, press her forehead into the back of cotton undershirt, comfort so that his nonchalance could comfort her. But Nines was not seeing Damsel. Instead, she wrapped both arms tighter around herself, guts cramping. He was standing near the closet, hunkered against a cheap door frame, gazing dully beyond the wood. She had to get away from him. She had to get out of here.

"I'm gonna' take a shower," the Brujah barked, scowling at her battered Capris. "If you get bugged and decide to storm out again, all up in arms n' shit, the least you could do is give me a fucking heads-up."

He did not notice as she strode past and slammed the bathroom shut.

Sealed behind three inches of oak, Damsel stopped. Her image, distorted by vampirism and lead-eaten glass, looked crystallized in the low-quality medicine cabinet mirror. _'Looks like shit, more like. What, bitch? Are you going to cry?'_ She tossed a faded pink towel over it. She hooked her beret and pistol on a washcloth shelf. The Den Mother didn't intend on pissing around in here to think anything to death, so she stripped her clothing into a wilted pile and stepped into Luckee Star's shower.

A burst of cold splattered her face and shoulders, making goose pimples rise, but was soon replaced by steam. Hot water saturated the red mane into a heavy mat; crimson dye leaked down back and collarbone, scattering in messy dots around her feet. It washed off her lipstick. Nails scrubbed angrily at her scalp. There was no shampoo; they only offered complementary bar soap, packaged in these annoying square boxes with motherfucking ducks floating across the edges. Still, clean was clean. The dirt of tonight scoured off until dead skin glowed fresh, body surrounded by cracked walls tinged with black mold. She opened her mouth and felt droplets plink off large, sharp teeth. There was no solid door in here – only a skimpy teal curtain – and it flooded, soaking her army surplus pants. Damsel cussed because she expected that reaction from herself. Fuck it, though; she didn't really care. Besides, the shower knobs were idiotically high, and she had to hoist up on tip-toe to reach them; it wasn't exactly dignifying for an Anarch in her position.

Beads freckled the tarp, rolling down. They mixed with the ink that rinsed from her roots. Damsel was a natural redhead, but it wasn't red _enough_. Spots hit tile, diluted by water, until they turned pink.

She twisted the pressure low, leaning her ear into linoleum siding. She tried to hear.

It sounded like Nines was still at the phone, still fussing around that splintering desk. His tone varied from insistent to troubled to grateful, each at calculated degrees. The Den Mother could tell from its mix of these traits that their leader was most likely talking to Christie. And she could tell from the particular way they blended that he was getting his way. It was difficult to listen closely through the sear of tap water, but Damsel could make out a few telltale words.

"Good…. Fine. Don't have a week… That's right. I'll see you then…. You all be careful. Keep your head down. We will."

The handheld clicked its base.

When Damsel first met Nines Rodriguez, she hadn't thought much of him – not beyond the obvious. He was one more vampire, maybe the fourth or fifth she'd been introduced to. He was also a friend of her Sire's, who walked up to their table, pulled the McCarthy-era Maoist up in a handshake and dealt her a rough half-hug. He had a nice smile and called Margaret "Magpie"; they spoke comfortably back and forth, business switched with amiable interest, like old friends who hadn't seen one another in years. He sat across their table with both elbows pressing into the wood, hunched slightly forward, head tilted slightly to one side. He talked about _how things are holding together in San Francisco. _He didn't take much notice of Damsel (who had still been "Beth" back then), and she didn't have anything special to say to him. That was about it.

At least until the bombs stared going off.

Nines had been much sweeter to Magpie than he had been to her Childe. People tended to admire Margaret – with her birdlike, skeletal hands, partially professorial; her tall, wispy frame; the academic authority with which she spoke about social order; her long, slightly hooked nose and blue-black hair. A streak or two of silver at her temples added wisdom. Her eyes were thin, always a little crinkled beneath, as thought caught in a perpetual smile. The ease with which she switched between Mandarin and English dialects impressed. Damsel's Sire used to be a teacher, or so she said – a language teacher, and an essayist – nearly eaten by a political system she believed in nevertheless. This humble history wasn't hard to believe. People liked to listen to Margaret – to what she said and how she said it, calm but confident in her intellect. Such qualities were a rare package for Brujah. Even Rodriguez, who charmed his way to idolization, looked up to her in this way. She was more than clever. She was just so damned smart.

Nines thought Damsel was dumb – and maybe she was – but the girl wasn't blind. He thought she didn't notice, but she did. He thought that she venerated him, relied on her devotion, assumed obedience from shared ideals and implicit trust. It was halfway true. Damsel did trust Nines. She trusted him completely, because she knew what he was. But she also knew what he wasn't.

And he wasn't her equal.

Things had been good in LA when Nines was Baron. The unofficiality of this title never seemed to hamper him before enemy sieges kicked into a fearsome pitch. He'd ruled casually, dictating and rewarding mostly unchallenged, praising his supporters with good reputations or executing outlaws via Gauntlet. Few contested him; even when his decisions were suspect, this State accepted that Rodriguez was their headman, and took it on faith he would not abuse what power they'd given him. So the commune was not perfect, not unflawed, not completely honest… but what the fuck was, all right? They were strong. They were happy. What did it matter if a part of that greatness was illusion? What the fuck did it matter? She had been dead and unrequited and happy. Shit, even when Sebastian LaCroix – slimy backstabbing son-of-a-bitch – began to push at their borders, snipe their kids… even when everyone was ready to throw themselves on a grenade at the drop of a goddamn pin to keep their leader alive… they were whole.

Every gun in her flock bitched and moaned and screamed liberty, but several years passed, Damsel had learned the very basics of this dance: saw that so much of that fire was only for sake of brotherhood. Fledgling Brujah didn't realize it yet – couldn't figure out where that wellspring of passion grew from, deep in their empty chests and up to swelling Adam's apples. They couldn't locate the seed of that fervor, sharp and painful – maybe stuck in a lung. All they could do was try to survive how it changed them: how it made breathing hard, seeing hard; how it caught in their insides and ripped them up; how it made you want to roar your name and puke all at once; how it stung like love gone bad. How it made you hate anyone who wasn't _one of us_. How it wormed into your hands and brain and veins, yearning for a single thing you could care about – something precious leftover – then whispering to hug that thing so tightly to yourself that it branded you, became a part of you, and made you want to kill everyone who came near.

They didn't recognize yet how badly they needed someone to tell them what to do with that feeling – the first thing you really felt since your heart stopped beating. It didn't really have much to do with government, when you stripped back the layers of political grease and glossy idealism. What you needed as a Brujah was family, a viable community, brawling, dying – an icon who could tell you when to pitch yourself raw and what direction to charge. What they needed was a war – because when they weren't soldiers, they were beasts.

On Damsel's third night as a neonate, she'd finally ventured alone through the doors of her Sire's balconied safe house in Detroit. It was a calm spring evening, cooled by fresh rain and speckled with people. The damp air felt pleasant in her belly and she allowed herself to think that Kindred existence might not be so shallow and half-full as it seemed – that maybe she didn't really need the sun, now that Margaret and these pale moons were in her life. The young vampire had traced familiar streets, logging her neighbors' cars away, padding across downtown to take comfort in that most of this world hadn't changed. Then some rich holier-than-thou Christian Youth motherfucker beat patrolling outside Comerica Park tried to hand her a bible study pamphlet and she'd beat the shit out of him. Her fists were red, pounding. It was that awful voice, that pretention, the way he thought he was so much _better_ than the rest of them but acted too saintly to say it aloud. Yelps and bits of teeth and plaid coat were blending into a scarlet haze. She wasn't sure if he died or not, because somewhere between choking the poor bastard and swinging an elbow into his broken nose, Damsel's senses returned to her and the woman ran away.

Like any fight, all you could really do was suck the blood off your knuckles and find somewhere else to be.

The Anarch gave herself a good shake, stepping out onto cold flooring, granules of something that might've been sand tickling beneath bare feet. She gave her sodden garments a useless kick. Sad pants and shirt were flung over the shower rail easily enough; underwear, still mostly dry, were fished out of a pocket. Luckee Star stocked only two towels beneath the sink, so she dried off with one and tied the other around herself toga-style, knots resting beneath strong arms.

When Damsel booted the bathroom door shut again, Rodriguez was still on the phone – with someone else, this time, but it was enough to irritate her. She gave a questioning look that wasn't answered. The Den Mother felt like flipping him off, but knew better than to fuck with Nines when he was in a paranoid bent; this was a fully-fledged anxiety attack, one suffered by elders who'd outlived their clan life expectancy. Being Brujah during the death of the Free-State, he'd passed his by about sixty years already.

Instead of hassling for more information, Damsel snorted. For the sake of doing something productive, she stuck one finger in the blinds and peered out to a quiet courtyard. There was close to no one downstairs; two twenty-year-old kids were sharing a joint behind several overgrown elephant ear plants out back, someone's silhouette tossed back beer in his suite across the way, and a couple next door sounded about five minutes from getting intimate. The Den Mother wondered if Bernardino and that Malk were really dead. _'Son-of-a-bitch.'_

"Uh, listen. If you honestly think shit's hit the fan, we shouldn't be here. We _should_ be back home guarding the place. Left open to the fucking Cam and who knows if it'll even still be standing by the time we crawl back," Damsel growled, yellow cotton pinned beneath her underarm. Wet hair stuck to the nape of her neck.

Nines said _"shh" _with a sharp look and a chin jerked towards the telephone.

"Hell. We can't stay here, anyway. Hollywood's not our turf and this crappy motel isn't exactly fortified, know what I-?" The new protest was cut off when he noticed where she was currently standing and thrust a finger angrily at her.

"HEY? Get your ass away from the window," Nines barked, swinging an arm heatedly towards the room's center, scowling as though she ought to know better. Damsel made a face, but skittered. The rug nubs were a soupy brown and caught her toes; lint stuck, fibers itching. Rodriguez shook his head and glared, three fingers covering the receiver. "Middle of a goddamn coup and I have to tell you not to stick your neck out? Jesus."

Times like this, she felt less like a revolutionary for the free-living dead and more like somebody's whore.

When it came down to the haywire, though, Damsel could cope with being ruled by someone like Nines. He underestimated her, backlogged her, told her to _pipe the fuck down_ on a semi-regular basis. They were all prepared to make meat-shields of themselves when bullets flew at him – and she was well-aware, whatever pledges of comradeship and respect their spokesman gave… he'd let them. He knew he needed to survive. He needed the control like they needed the commander. Neither side would admit it, never murmur this truth amongst themselves. But it was obvious. Followers were the only thing keeping a Baron in power, and Barons were the only reason people like her had something to believe in.

While the Anarch was waiting for someone to pick up – Sanders, Damsel figured, that bastard East Side Toreador who couldn't stop hanging around lately; she suspected Rodriguez was aiming for a Playboy replacement – his cell rang.

A single voice spoke before he'd even lifted the phone to one ear. _"I need a favor."_

"Easy, London," Nines said, flinging the Den Mother a significant look across Room 2A. His tone was steady and suspiciously unpartisan, but one hand waved for her to come join him beside the desk. Damsel did. Green eyes slitted, the younger Brujah padded over silently, hefting herself onto the opposite ledge, leaning as close as she dared. Both balls of her feet dangled freely. Sure enough: a faint accent was buzzing through, distorted by shitty reception. It sounded jumbled – more so than the normal amount of interference accounted for. A gloomy twist of resent squirmed inside her gut. _'Blueblood bitch probably had something to do with this whole fucked-up night.' _She glanced over the cellular at Rodriguez's cheek. If he shared these suspicions, the old Anarch said nothing to suggest so to tense Seneschal Los Angeles. "I'm here. What do you need?"

"_I don't have much time. Don't say anything. Listen to me talk."_ The Ventrue was shaky and ridiculously under-explained. She must not have known about Santa Monica, and Nines wasn't telling. Damsel's pupils anxiously flickered between the door and the spokesman, who – listening raptly – paid no mind. His face did not match the unassuming pitch of his comforts. It was sharper than a jeweler's knife. _"I need you to get something for me. A set of files. Can you do that?"_

Dark eyebrows dented further on the Brujah's forehead. The red-haired girl, still dripping product, had to swallow an urge to bitch this needy, arrogant brownnose out for her assumptions. "I'm going to need more specifics than that."

She hesitated. _"I… I can't tell you much more. I'm not sure I really know enough myself to enlighten you. But if you do this for me, I will be thankful,"_ the lair said, as though that meant anything beyond jack shit from a Childe of Sebastian LaCroix. _"And I will share what I discover once the information is in my possession."_ She breathed out when he did not immediately respond. She thought about it for some time. She began, enunciating each word with gulped distaste and battened-down fear. _"There is a warehouse on Landa Street being used as a Camarilla data morgue. I'm sending you the address now. It's very modest. It's not frequented; there's hardly any thru-traffic, because the facility is largely off-the-record, even to our casual operatives. I know; I've sent several documents there myself. And I have reason to suspect there may be a very significant set of telephone records stored in that building. The call dates will likely be this year and should all be placed from Venture Tower, extension six hundred. Did you get that? Six-zero-zero."_ Damsel chewed her tongue with growing temper. She was waiting for Nines to cut back, but he kept silent, shooting his cohort a threatening look when her crimson mouth dropped open to squawk outrage. _"The recipient is a city-local number, probably area code 213. I'll forward all this to you as soon as we're done. Are you with me? Nines?"_

"I'm with you," he grunted, elbowing the Den Mother when her blunt nails began to scrape finish off discount oak. No, she couldn't have known about Bernardino. Not yet, anyway… not unless this was some fucked-up, elaborate trick. Prudent Anarchs never put flagrant deception beyond a Ventrue, of course, but Rodriguez could handle the political power-plays. Damsel wished she had her Browning in hand. The _'chtak' _sound its hammer made against the unloaded barrel consoled her. _'So far.'_

London had to take a minute to calm her righteous self down. She was tonguing her teeth – the Den Mother could tell. It was a nervous tick familiar to neonates and fretful ancillae alike. This was also a habit that annoyed the piss out of Nines; when she used to do it, particularly during tribe punishments, he'd woof at her to knock it off. _"All right. All right. Listen. This particular morgue, as I said, is unassuming but nevertheless surveillance is tight. The entire place is accessible only via company keycard. Not just everyone is a carrier, however; there are only a few individuals I'm aware of, all personal secretaries of Prince La… The Prince,"_ she corrected, wilting inside at the mention of her Sire's name. _"High clearance; the lowest propensity to hurt him. I can procure a keycard for you, but you understand – I cannot be seen walking in and pulling folders. If I clear security for you Tuesday night, can your people make it look like a break-in?" _

"What people?" Damsel mouthed furiously at him, and was shut up with another well-placed glower.

Even Rodriguez's demeanor was thinning, however; his façade of calmness began to stiffen around its brim. These incessant circles and back-and-forth between them were tiring him. The Den Mother, who'd leapt up to pace a moment ago, sidled over to share his telephone again; she could feel measured breath slip out of the Baron's nose and into this stale hotel air. "Yeah, Woeburne," Nines told her, voice deepening in its impatience. He would not reveal their current weakness. An arm folded across his stomach. "We could probably do that – but you know I have to ask. What is this info that's got you all broken up all of a sudden? I'm not exactly a fan of rushing in blind, I think you are aware."

The Ventrue pursed. Damsel had only met her face-to-face in forums and unwelcome meetings, but more than enough to conjure up that strict, unremarkable face. More than enough to envision how it winced and crinkled at every blemish on Nocturne's carpet, every scuff on floorboards – and more than enough to remember how badly she wanted hit LaCroix's whore right in her buttoned-up throat. _"I can't say anything more until I know for certain. I've already told you. Aren't you hearing me?"_ A snarl tore along red lips, no matter how much both Anarchs had been expecting just that response. (_'Bitch,'_ the Den Mother threw in, a mouthed aside just for anyone keeping score. Still, her desperation was obvious now.)

_"Believe me, I don't come to you with this willingly, Nines,"_ she admitted, cracking here and there, almost laughing – a sick, miserable echo. (_'Crazy bitch,'_ Damsel added.) _"I come to you because this is the only option I have and because you are the only one I can trust will not report to the Prince. I am only telling you this because every bit of data inside that stockpile is bound to be encrypted. You won't be able to read anything but the labels without my aid. And I'm offering that – after," _she stressed, a poor temptation, a smeared underline._ "After you've done as I ask. If you can get it, I'll set up a drop-"_

Nines was curt, forceful and blunt. "Woeburne, I will not fuck you around. This is an incredible risk to my organization. From what you're telling me about this site, it could end up a one-way trip for one of my people, and my people don't get off easy when we break laws. I am prepared to go ahead, but you understand I CAN'T make a call like that without knowing what I'm sending some kid to their death for."

"_Nines, please. You're just going to have to take my word for it."_

They both balked aloud at this, pulling away from the receiver to snort at once. Damsel hated the way she said his name.

"Are you joking with me?" Rodriguez's fangs glinted for a second in the dim light of their room. She heard his jeans shuffle.

Seneschal LA didn't like being asked this in such an unfriendly tone; she choked on a taut ball of pressure. The Den Mother seethed, nails now biting both bare thighs, towel failing to dry up as much as her fury did. _"No," _she told him, deadly clear. That single word communicated a great deal – about severity, and about her current place among kings. _"This is not a joke. In fact, I have never been more serious. Can't you appreciate what an embarrassing amount of faith I'm vesting in you – in _you_; not the Anarchs, but _you_, a man who has tried to kill me in the past – by sharing this? By allowing you to enter a building full of confidential information? With a pass _I_ provided?"_

"Which – according to you – is useless to me, anyway. If I could function off faith, London, I wouldn't be where I am right now. So if you've got nothing else…"

There was another hiss of static across the lines. Someone called their Luckee Star number, but he ignored it; when Damsel moved to pick up, Nines shook his head. It seemed like wherever Woeburne was, cars were rushing by her, a city clocking through the pale purple hours of nightfall. _"If I'm right – IF my suspicions are correct – this will be _big_, Nines._" (Ugh, she said it again.)_ "Bigger than either one of us. Jesus Christ, I can't exactly go to the Sabbat. I understand what I am asking from you is not an easy thing; it isn't an easy thing to trust a Ventrue, but it has to be your people. Don't you want to be among the first to know, anyway? Don't you want to hear from the source?"_

There was a silence. His voice dropped to the glacial range.

"Let's get one thing straight right now," Rodriguez said, tendons tightening along his jowl. This was the tone Damsel heard the most. This was the tone he didn't bother coating in pleasantries or bite-sized persuasions. "You do not ask me for a favor and then talk to me like a child. You say 'first to know,' but what you mean is 'when it's convenient to me.' Tell me something. Where the fuck are your contingency plans? Did you even consider – given the possibility that I just MIGHT decide not to go through with this shit – the blowback on either of our fronts? Fuck. What's to stop me from kicking that door down anyway?"

As if _The Last Round_'s matron needed yet another reason to hate this self-important lawman – her answer wasn't only cocky and aggravated. It was a motherfucking list. _"A: You'll be shot, because I won't clear it. B: You won't have access to get up the stoop, let alone into any catalogues. C: You'll have dashed under the pendulum for no reason whatsoever. Go tramping over there now, and your Anarch will die empty-handed. It's a pointless risk. Wait for me, and the only hit will be some bad publicity."_

Damsel could've spit right on the goddamn floor. Every one of Seneschal Woeburne's tidy little bullet-points made her want to knock another tooth out of that dumb deputy's head. Nines didn't say anything. He was deciding how angry to be. His displeased face was impassive, the inscrutable color of dead flesh. She didn't interrupt him. There was a vein throbbing somewhere between her temples. It itched, nagged, demanded the violent exacting of penance.

Nines Rodriguez had not explicitly taught LA's young Den Mother a great deal of Jyhad lessons since that Sabbat kamikaze made him her Sire. He wouldn't leave a Brujah fledgling to die, or to wander this murky world as a Caitiff until some up-and-coming Scourge blasted through their brain… but there was a reason Baron Los Angeles made no Childer of his own. He had too much to worry about. Damsel didn't hold it against him – not really. She wasn't Embraced into this city's Kindred, after all; she was an orphan who puffed up to earn her place behind him. So the girl inferred what she could through observation. This could be difficult, because Nines excelled at subtlety and she was a god-awful note-taker… but there were a few leadership cues on display in downtown. One thing he was adamant about, one rule he never broke: do not, for any reason, show an enemy where and when you hurt. Do not show a wild dog your limp. Do not show an Elder's Harpies the slack in your operation. Do not show an ambitious Ventrue where she could bury her penknife. Fail in this, and you could kiss your hardscrabble Domain, your flock, and your unlife goodbye.

Damsel wondered if LaCroix's bitch had figured this out about him, because – for all her fancy talking and carefully-chosen words – she said: _"I'm ASKING for your HELP,"_ and did it in such a way that Nines paused.

"If I do this," he told her. "If I put myself in front of a Camarilla firing squad for a couple papers you think are important, and you leave me with nothing but my dick in my hands, Woeburne, I swear to God…"

"_You'll get your payout in spades,"_ she pledged.

"When I'm finished with you…"

"_I'LL COME THROUGH, ALL RIGHT?" _That was the end of their business conversation.

Damsel looked to Rodriguez. He was hard to read from his square of desk, still holding the cell between them, gears clanking into place behind an unbolted stare. It was an expression of a man who played chess with no pawns.

Damsel didn't know if it was right to say she admired Nines Rodriguez. The word implied a desire to emulate – to capture an aspect of your hero's essence and swallow it, internalize it, make it an operant part of you. She didn't want to be the low-voiced Brujah figurehead. The young Anarch might argue that she didn't want to be anything like their rebel chieftain; he was too large-scale, too iconic to be reproduced en masse. And maybe there was something else, too – some dark kernel that stoked doubts, made her guts ache, kept a smaller monster from drawing too close.

There was nothing loving about Los Angeles's new Den Mother. Female Kindred were not bleeding hearts, regardless of how matriarchal the various titles might've sounded, and she did her boorish best to deserve their clan. But she still hurt only with bullets and clenched fists. Nines killed with idolatry and utopic visions – with words that his adolescent pack, desperate for humanness, developed addictions to. They were addictions worse than any petty self-detriment or the taste of any drug. He warped them badly – so badly that Damsel did not know if her Sire ever truly believed what he preached – but she knew _she_ wanted, needed, had no choice but to believe for herself. If that dream was false, nothing meant anything. If that dream was false, their bloodline's passion would amount to little more than unfocused hate.

And because that could not happen, Damsel followed Nines. His promises were corrupt, but they were the only ones worth saving.

"Clear the morgue," he said, wetting his lips. "I'll get it myself."

Suddenly Cam wasn't so sure. _"That isn't what I planned. Are you sure you can do this? I don't think you grasp-"_

"Make up your goddamn mind," the Den Mother grumbled beside him. Rodriguez told her, again, to _shh._ She was getting offended with all the gestures to quiet-down, honestly, but did so out of respect and dues in equal doses. He showed no recognition of her obedience. It was demanded and expected.

"I said clear it," Nines repeated; a stark contrast to Damsel's external hellfire and inner weaknesses, Woeburne's hesitancy irritated him. Hesitancy was not a trait Anarchs took pride in, particularly not when aimed towards their war leaders. Second-guessing from allies was not something he often had to contend with… even when the allies were as unfavorable and temporary as this one. "Don't think. Camarilla aren't paid to think. Just make sure that warehouse is empty tomorrow night."

"_That's too soon,"_ she swore, hitting reverse. _"It'll have to be Tuesday."_

The Brujah was adamant. "Tomorrow."

Serena Woeburne detected his insistency and didn't much care for it. She no longer trusted the Baron's tone, and her misgivings were obvious from the way she caught and paused. A mental finger hovered over 'retreat.' The silence was short but highly critical. _"I won't. If your men set foot near this address before Tuesday, I'll…"_ (…tell the Prince about their recent move for Santa Monica? Fat chance. Fresh as she was, even Damsel saw through this bluff cliffhanger; no Seneschal would compromise themselves like that, politically or mentally. Especially not when their neck was at the mercy of a Sire as self-absorbed and unforgiving as Mummy's Little Soldier LaCroix.)

"Then you're as fucked and alone as you were before you made this call," Nines rumbled at her, tongue hitting the back of his eye teeth – painful malice, white flashing like metal.

She swallowed from her penthouse, condo, Jag – wherever that bitch was – tasting the nothingness in her mouth.

"_I will clear it," _the Ventrue said finally. Her agreement was a sobering compromise; its quickness spoke volumes about her changing positions of power._ "But you WILL wait for my go-ahead and you WILL report to me immediately afterwards on terms of my choosing. Is this clear?"_

"Like glass."

Damsel looked wildly at him.

"Woeburne?" Nines asked when she offered them little else.

The Seneschal sounded sick. His cautious tone did not affect her in a positive way. _"What?"_

"We good?"

"_Mmn."_

"You don't sound like it," he noted, studying a set of nails.

LaCroix's Childe responded with a bitter, miserable laugh. High notes tinkled through the receiver, peppery, derision and cruel humor. That laugh scared Damsel. It was insane in its implications. It was the defeatist cackle of someone with precious too much left to lose, and it burned. _"Do you want the truth? You don't care. You'll do what I've asked you, anyway – of that I'm quite certain. But I'll tell you. I wish I had never come to LA,"_ she said, clear and contentedly plain._ "I wish I never met you. Every time I've talked to you has done nothing but sink me deeper into someone else's grave. In fact, I suspect you're waiting for me to fill your catacombs for you, and now I can't believe it's deteriorated to the point where I am forced to walk into… whatever this is again. Hah! Really! 'We good?' Hah-hah! That's the worst bloody thing I've ever heard. You want to know what I think?" _A brittle bark. _"I think I hate you, Nines Rodriguez. I think you are a cancer. So, to answer your question… no,"_ she told him, almost cooing it, frighteningly cool. _"We ain't 'good'."_

An echo of "We do what we have to" was all he had in reply. The Ventrue thought about it. Her wiles were repetitive; only fitting that his advice should be, too.

"_I don't want to do this anymore,"_ she said.

Nines was not listening well enough to pick up on this immediately, already halfway into his next point. "You know when I- wait, what?"

"_This."_

He certainly heard that, however. Rodriguez's face morphed from restrained and cunning to rigid warning. "I know you're not telling me the whole damn night was for nothing," he sneered, seconds from livid. "You set this up. You called for it. I'm willing to go through. If you have cold feet now, you're right: how you feel matters exactly shit to me. If you honestly think you can tell me to bail after all that mess…"

Woeburne pushed out a sigh, annoyed. His failure to read her confessions exasperated the Seneschal. _"Not tonight. Not tomorrow night. All of this,"_ she went on, swishing her cell through the air, creating static._ "I don't have enough left in me to do it much longer. I thought I did. I don't. If you cannot work quietly, please work fast."_

The Brujah, not sure what he was witnessing from miles away in Hollywood, hesitated. He glanced to Damsel. He fulfilled. "This will all be over soon."

"_Don't tell me that,"_ LaCroix's girl spat. Her tone was ragged, but the emotions behind it fluctuated as though she'd drank too much. The Den Mother began to wonder if Ventrue bombed themselves by sucking on sketchy blood. There was an instability to that tin soldier, an aggressive flinging of pretense to the wind that suggested someone about to die. She sounded like an officer melting down. _"I've been on the telephone all fucking night. I know how Jyhad works; I've never needed your condescension or your 'advice.' When I speak with you on my own terms, I don't expect support, but I do expect candor. So if you are going to tell me only what you _think _I want to hear… there's no need. I'm very accustomed to being scared."_

"Everybody's scared, London," Nines said, and did so in a personal, certain way that Damsel thought maybe he could've really meant it. "Everybody."

Ms. Woeburne was silent. Ms. Woeburne probably couldn't disagree.

"_Do what you've promised,"_ Seneschal Los Angeles ordered, and hung up, receiver slipping into the hook; it was a weak, unhostile sound.

The line went dead.

"I don't think she'll make it another week," Nines said. He flipped the phone shut and turned it over in one large hand.

Damsel was disconcerted by the Anarch's low-key reaction. She hoped for laughing, rants and heated brush-offs; had anticipated words about scheming Camarilla clowns and how moronic Sebastian LaCroix was to push his splintering cronies at the Free-State and have faith they'd swim. She wanted a comment or two about how badly the Prince's progeny was floundering lately – dumb bitch, dog-paddling through plots too deep for her narrow-minded brand of flunkey. They thought Rodriguez would bite on _that_ rotten bait, for Christ's sake? Shit! Any respectable Brujah ought to be hawking death threats at such a slap in the face. His sitting there, largely expressionless, was the most upsetting reaction she could've imagined. She jumped upright.

"You're not actually considering going to that Cam dugout, right?" the Den Mother pressed, eyebrows stretching toward her hairline, fists perpendicular to her hips. "'Cause this is one a screaming motherfucker of a set-up. You realize that. Right?"

Nines glowered at Damsel as though she'd flat-out called him stupid. He slid the cell back into his pocket and leant forward, elbows hanging on both knees. "Obviously something foul is going down in the Tower. Something big enough to scare Woeburne right down her boss's beanstalk, anyway. You can bet I won't be knocking in that door tomorrow. But I don't think she was lying." The strange nothingness from him had been distressing; overconfidence was enough to make Damsel start yapping her why-the-fuck-nots.

"I don't have to explain myself. I don't get that vibe from her at this time," he said simply. Silver eyes tapped down in irritation, then into her own pair to criticize. "By the way, you look like an idiot standing there hollering at me in a fucking bath towel."

"Oh, yeah? I am so fucking sorry," Damsel grumbled at him, digging at the spokesman's alliances, arms pinning her breasts down. "I had no motherfuckin' clue this was a formal affair. I'dve dressed more professional. Why the fuck should we even believe that warehouse exists, anyway? More likely this is big cloud of hot air is to get you out into the open. Nines, if you really think Bernardino and Chino are dead, this shit hotel isn't going to cut it. We've got to get your ass to the shelter. I'm serious," she added, concern softening the accusatory brow. "At least until Christie and her crew get here. At least until we have some backup. I mean, what the hell do we really know about what's going on downtown? Maybe someone's trying to take _her_ out – did you think of that? Maybe the bastard's done playing dress-up with his dollies and this is his way of kicking that bitch out of a job."

"Maybe. I still want to check it out."

"Then we will – but let's get to the hills first. You can send Sanders to Landa Street to get his balls cooked. Dickweed's dying for a chance to prove he won't bruise easy as the rest of his bitch clan. Shit. I'll go, if that's what you want. I ain't scared." (She tried to ignore the scoff that never quite made it up her Sire's throat. She licked her lips.) "Why don't you just get Nicky Shih on the phone; pay him back, let him shove one of his guard into the-"

Real hostility suddenly lit inside the ice of Nines's eye; it flashed raw his look, and snared the Brujah's heart like barbed wire. He stared Damsel right in the face – right in the face as though to shoot her with it. His dangerous change demanded answers. His voice wrecked to depths no longer human. "How the fuck do you know about Shih?"

The Den Mother stalled out. Her mind withdrew metaphorically; physically, her stare blanched, body five steps backward until there was no more room to retreat. The Baron did not move an inch. She instantly regretted it. "Why would I-"

He stood up much too quickly. "You think now's a good time to fuck with me, Damsel?" Rodriguez growled; she could see his frame clench and teeth around the words. That tired disposition had one-eightied in a heartbeat, a clan Brujah trademark, into hair-trigger fury. There was a very thin ring of panic suffocating the blue from his glare. She didn't think Nines would ever kill her; didn't _think_; but… "You listen close. Nobody knew about that. Nobody was supposed to know about that. _Nobody_. How the fuck do YOU?"

She'd never given him a reason before. "I just," Damsel got out before having to swallow, glancing down then up, waiting for him to take a step towards her and not sure if she should be relieved when he didn't. "It just made sense, all right? I've been taking stock – all this ordinance, then that Compton outpost – and the figures weren't adding up. We haven't made a decent profit at HQ in moths. I didn't exactly spread that around, but there it is; I know we don't have the windfall for what we've got now. We haven't in a long time. But the firepower keeps coming, and… look, Nines." Another swallow. The Den Mother's fingers felt sticky with sweat she knew wasn't there. One arm grabbed the other – sheepish, insecure contact. She clutched the towel to herself. "Shih had to get your number from somewhere."

The disclosure seemed to collapse Rodriguez. Their Baron sat back down upon his sad throne – heavy, slack – all the energy and vitriol draining out of him.

"It's not like I've got any details," she added, for safety and reassurance in equal measures. "He didn't say anything to me. I told him you might be interested and sent him your way, that's all; it didn't seem like something you needed to be bothered with. Nobody knows. It's OK."

"No," Nines insisted – a disagreement spat out. The fight had been reduced to a sulk; he sounded oddly like a spurned boy, who knew only how to shout, lie and hit. He clung on to what was familiar when new spins were put on what Rodriguez thought he'd figured out. There was weight that hung upon his neck. "No, it is not OK. It is not OK for you to take calls from people like Nicky Shih without telling me about it. It is not OK for you to decide what I need to know. Making me friends is not your job."

"I'm sorry, all right?"

He said nothing more about it. Nines scrubbed a hand over his frown. Some time passed before they spoke again, but it was long enough for Damsel to regain her confidence, and short enough so that the topic did not change.

"There's not enough to pay back, anyway. Doubt he'd take it back. Shih's not my loan shark," Rodriguez muttered, an afterthought. He was not interested in arguing strategy with someone else's Childe, but the situation was dire enough – and company plain enough – that there was no point in pretense. The color of his hair, hands, eyes looked washed out in the aftermath of anger. "Even if there were, I wouldn't. Already burned through more than I liked containing the goddamn Sabbat; not something that could've been avoided, but this is a time to be smart. We don't touch the rest of that money. It's insurance."

She crossed the room again, caution dwindling to concern, until Damsel was standing in front of him. Her red hair had stopped bleeding. It turned humid and dark. "Insurance for what?"

"Isaac," Nines said – nothing else.

It was a fear she knew their headman had; shifty glances, difficult meetings, questionable politics and Hollywood's smirk led to this treacherous end. The Den Mother could not say who'd scared the other first – whose mannerisms first offended, whose undercut started this mutual double-cross game – but there was no fraternity between either Kindred. They had never been fond of one another, personalities too different. But it had only been within the last few years – since Sebastian LaCroix marched on LA – that Abrams, Toreador goldmine, gained the ground to use Nines Rodriguez. His blood money made them do dangerous things, stupid things, things that her surrogate resented almost as much as Camarilla borderlines. Bad embargoes stretched them thin and limping in run-down times. Scores of dead soldiers clamped his chain around their throats – a Free-State with black eyes, a chief muzzled – dying for fair-weather friends because they had no barricades left but Isaac's wealth.

And it was the hatreds that sly kingpin saw bubble up in Nines – the Baron he'd made his blackguard – that whispered this contract could only end with another war.

So it was rhetorical when she'd asked it, knowing well, but not wanting to hear: "Abrams seriously wants to have us whacked?"

"I'm not giving him the chance. That's why I made the deal with Shih. We've got to keep going. Got to save our shots, look long. We'll take Hollywood if we have to, when all's said and done," the Baron promised – and you couldn't tell, from how he scowled at nothing, whether the voice that said so was hoarse from stubbornness or anxiety. His frustration made him quick to roar and clam up outside the audience of others. He was looking vaguely downwards. He seemed smaller somehow. "After this."

Damsel almost took his hand. "Nines. Do you really think there's an after this?"

He closed his eyes. He did not answer her.

She breathed out, a five-ton exhale, and plunked down on the foot of Luckee Star's bed. It let out a pathetic squeak. They sat like that, silently across from one another, for a while.

"Look, let's just…" It was the Den Mother who broke their truce. She did not want to quarrel about the fine lines anymore. Waiting felt like defeat; her voice and slouched posture sounded like defeat; the anti-wrinkle spray on this quilt, something offensively peach, smelled like defeat. They didn't hold the vantage and no one had enough time. "Let's just go. We can figure out what to do next when we're somewhere out of range. But staying here isn't helping anything, and it's driving us both crazy. Let's go, OK?"

"Damsel. Things get bad enough, I will personally hold the escape hatch open for you. But I'm not falling back to Griffith Park until we're squeezed to the brink. You understand? It's not a vacation home. We don't come back from there. It's our final line of defense; we hit that safe-house without a plan, it's over for us. The end of the road." She breathed. She gulped. She blinked hard, lids rumpling, trying to stop the discolored carpet from spinning into nonsense. "I'm not ready to make my last stand. Because it's not over. Do you hear me? This is not over."

Damsel was not a frontline freedom fighter or a Red saint. She had the unfortunate task of Den Mothering a veteran clan, taking care of men and women who did not want any fussing over. She vented awkwardly, unneeded, bereft of neonates who relied upon her greater experience. In this respect, maybe somebody's whore was an easier set of boots to fill. Most nights, Damsel went through life feeling like a harbor with no boats. She chased after older, more calloused Brujah – shouting, harping, boasting an urge to organize. They paid little mind to her, heeding their superfluous matron about as much as one might heed a nagging mistress sans the possibility of sex.

Still, she wanted to care for them. She wanted to very badly. Sometimes Damsel thought she would have done anything they asked of her – even that; maybe especially that – for the recognition denied her. It would have been simpler as a human; they had basic, curable itches. Push such raw comforts to predators and face expulsion. And yet the young Anarch had a duty to force her affection. It was of the tough, gamey variety, but it was all she had to offer.

Damsel didn't give a shit. She'd love them whether they gave a damn about her or not.

"Yeah," the girl mumbled. "I hear you."

Then: "You think we could get our hands on one of those pass cards without her?"

Nines mulled this question over. His head leant back against the shedding wall, black hair ruffling, quiet severity. "I don't know. Probably not without killing someone between then and now. Why?"

"Why? Cause bitch is cracking under the pressure and I don't trust Ventrue when they're completely put-together. Forget whether or not she's lying. She fucks up, Nines – that blueblood drops the ball – and we're left out to dry. And you know… there is nothing forcing her to actually show us what's packed in there. Not that signing contracts with the devil means shit, anyway."

To her surprise, he nodded. "You're not wrong. I'll take it under consideration, Damsel. But from what we just saw, Woeburne seems to have a pretty good sense this maneuver is do-or-die for her. Whether that's true or not, I can't know, but it sure as hell doesn't look like there's room for getting sloppy. Now, I didn't like her tone tonight, so after this – we're through. Time's fast coming where I'm gonna' put as much distance between me and the Seneschal as possible. She's too hot product. But I think she's got one more in her."

"Maybe. But if your London Bridge falls, Nines…"

"London's tough. Poor London," he said, barely smiling.

Damsel left the room, checked to see if her clothes were still wet, and was sent back disappointed. She lingered as long as she could with that flimsy wooden door between herself and the chief. She wrung out her hair, staining both palms cherry. She dipped them in the sink. She accidentally glanced at the mirror, forgetting not to, haunted again by pictures of how her face looked before the graveyard change. Warmer skin. Happier eyes. Fuller cheeks. August always spittled freckles over them, a detail she'd hated in life, but now almost missed.

'_Fuck this,' _she thought, and opened the medicine cabinet so that glass echo wouldn't stare back anymore.

The Den Mother wrestled into her bra, snapping it on, not caring about the dampness. She pulled on her top. Dripping strands left tracks across the cotton instantly. She stuffed them into her beret. She chucked the towel and decided that, since he didn't care anyway, she might as well walk around looking like college sleepwear: boring underwear and a shabby shirt. Fuck appearances and trying to impress. She was too weary to bother with it now.

Damsel scratched some paint off the wall, kicked the plastic trash bin over, and returned to the bedroom. She picked up her handgun and set it on an open corner of dresser. "Still think we ought to work around that Seneschal."

"I told you: I'll sleep on it."

"You don't think tomorrow's too late? Fuck," the woman cursed, yanking out dresser drawers, checking for something else to wear. They were empty but for a pack of ziplocks and decrepit Bible. One of the brass handles came off in her fingers; each tug let out a horrible, stressful yelp. "I'd ring up whoever you want for this bust right now. Only way to beat her to the punch."

"I'm not doing anything tonight. Way too soon to act. For now, we wait it out," Rodriguez told her, sitting lazily between the telephone and desk lamp. He'd pulled out a stack of city yellow pages and placed the heavy book next to him, but no sections had been dog-eared. He wasn't looking at her.

Damsel didn't give up so swiftly. "You think Jeanette Voerman could do anything for us?"

"Drop it, Red."

"I mean, she's a slut. But she knows people. Bet Woeburne would change her tune real quick if we got a Nosferatu working under her little 'plans.' What about that Santa Monica SOB? Tung's his name, right…?"

"I'm serious. Enough."

She didn't pout. She steamed. The Den Mother gave her pistol a hair-raising spin-the-bottle whirl against the furniture and ground it out: "Fine. Fucking wonderful. Well, I hope to hell you get another bitch to run this errand for you. Pardon me if I'm not rushing to bend over backwards for some sell-out Camarilla cunt you aren't getting – whatever the fuck was that you said? – 'vibes' from."

Before she could take it back – or slice any deeper – Nines stood up, lunged across the room, and ducked two inches in front of her face.

"I don't need to take this from you," he growled, upper lip twitching back over his canines. Damsel blinked. A large hand clapped down on her collarbone, heavy enough to yank the skin; his thumb and forefinger angrily framed her throat. Blue eyes were the width of knife edges. Rings pinched surface nerves. It was reflex to turn, to break away with a jerk of one shoulder, but she couldn't move. She froze. Her chin tucked defensively towards her chest. His fingers were digging her clavicle. She felt shaken up, legs hollow – as though with a harsh step forward, she might sound like LaCroix's own jaded, tittering puppet. "We are in the middle of a potential crisis and you're on my back about a fucking Ventrue? You listen to me. You are going to sit your ass down on that bed, shut up, and calm yourself down – or I swear, Damsel, I will calm you down." He gave her a shove.

She flopped herself onto the mattress. The springs creaked forlornly.

As this was far from the first time Damsel had been bitched out by Nines Rodriguez, she did not flail or flee or plead for his approval in a series of nasally sobs. All of these acts would have only humiliated her and pissed him off even more. There was a certain protocol for being scolded by Anarchs; verbal apologies were excessive. Refrain from hysterics, allow him space, and he would soon forget your transgressions. He had more important things to stress about than miniature grudges. And yet, knowing everything she did about coexisting as an underling Den Mother, it still crackled a chill up her spine and left a tree oil taste like vomit creeping up the young Brujah's gullet. She pulled her naked legs onto the coverlet, folding them. She flattened herself into stillness.

"Maybe I'll go check on _The Last Round_ tomorrow. While you're busy with this shit," the girl added, placating, hauling her backpack onto the bed and tugging it open. "Still need to lock the place down."

"Why don't you do that," he granted, relocating to closet wall.

Damsel reached into the knapsack and found her quarry: an Aquafina bottle emptied of water and filled with clean blood. It was lukewarm, refrigeration worn off. She'd only grabbed four of them when they dashed out of downtown about two hours ago. Lucky thing Rodriguez hadn't darted for Griffith Park right then; otherwise these reserves would've been kaput within a day. Luckee Star Motel made them unnecessary, of course, but it was still nice to have a drink at hand.

She'd barely twisted off its cap when Nines snatched the container from her hands, loudly knocked down three-fourths, and returned the bottle without comment. The Den Mother scowled at his back. She finished it sullenly. The empty vial was crumpled and chucked beneath the springboard.

"Guess I better call the fucking Toreador," he sighed, picked up the telephone, and began to dial.

Damsel didn't know why she stood up. There wasn't a sudden sixth sense that shrieked peril into her ears. There wasn't a mysterious signal that alerted her. Daybreak wasn't for many hours yet, and Luckee Star seemed to drag itself sluggishly into the night, dipping Hollywood's heels into darkness. Nines didn't hum anything suspicious against the receiver, waiting unenthusiastically for Sanders to pick up. She didn't even feel restless, really – not more so than usual – with a sizeable dose of confidence bitten from her gut and grim determination not to further nettle her Sire. Jesus, the woman wished like hell she hadn't, though hindsight didn't patch holes.

She stood up. And it ended her.

The bullet broke the tiny bathroom window, plunged through the door she had left hanging wide, zinging towards Nines's temple.

He heard the shatter, and ducked.

It sailed across the room, whistling, unfazed by missing its target.

It split the air around that rickety desk, leaping beneath the ceiling fan, howling over the rumpled bed.

It nailed Damsel's jawbone to the far wall.

No one caught her. She splattered and hit the floor in an ugly, seizing heap of limbs. Marrow, fluid, saliva and liquid scarlet exploded from her, sprayed across the garish wallpaper. Flecks hit a privacy curtain. Napalm sizzled straight to the back of her head, searing Damsel's nostrils, scorching the papillae off her coiled tongue. Her hat flew. She didn't see where. Pink spots like brainmatter dotted the rug. She smelled burning.

White blasted the corners off her eyesight, and made it difficult to read the blank horror that dropped Nines's face; he bent over her, fingers curling, not knowing whether to cover the smashed cove of her face or look for the missing mandible. His mouth was gaping, opening and shutting. No sound came out. Human snow plastered the front of his pants. His blue eyes swallowed the light.

She lifted her hand to push him away from her, to steer him out, but saw that the fingertips had dissolved.

Her toes were gone, too.

It was getting hard to think.

She wasn't sure what she wanted to tell him. Too many half-thoughts and unformed words were choking through her fire-lit, overloaded brain. She wanted to scream at him for crouching here with an assassin lingering outside; beg him to wait for Christie in Griffith Park; advise him Los Angeles wasn't _really_ the end-all-be-all of this fucked-up nation. She wanted to remind him, needlessly, that it was all right because she'd owed him. That it was all right because no one had ever needed her – relied upon her. That it was all right because she loved him, in whatever way she still could. There was dust and ash and clots founting from her throat, but she tried.

'_What is my name? What the fuck is my name?'_ She couldn't remember anymore. Beth had been bleached out by a revolutionary and his ideals. She stared at him, unable to shut her eyes, having lost who she was. She couldn't speak. Words gurgled to mush and ran down into her lungs. Damsel fought to make a sound until the tears were running down her cheekbones, thicker than the Brujah's blood. She didn't want to die strangled. She didn't have to mean anything. She just wanted to say _something_.

Nothing came.

And then there was nothing at all.

Nines closed what was left of her mouth with his cold left hand.


	69. La Vie en Rose

**La Vie en Rose**

Joelle was dreadfully, dreadfully bored.

The vampire sighed in her swivel-chair, manicure smoothing down slick caramel hair. Three monitors glowed lazily from every angle. Pending e-mail hogged one, a blue blast of pixels; the middle showed Mr. LaCroix's December schedule, grid still lacking several important appointments; uneventful security feeds comprised the last. Keys felt sticky and bland beneath her fingertips. Mouse clicks echoed in the vast, high-ceilinged chamber. It was quiet enough to freeze flesh.

White nails peppered into the black reception desk, and she scraped the satin red witch-toe of her left shoe along a power cable nestled beneath.

Mlle. Lefevre was not thrilled to be working so late into the night. It was not fatigue. Venture Tower's lobby rarely taxed her, for clan Toreador had a finesse for smiling prettily when they'd rather spit; paperwork putted along easily enough. But it was all so _dull_. While Joelle realized that two whole 'dreadfullies' might seem a touch melodramatic, there was no better way to describe this drain upon her enthusiasm. Streetlamps throbbed on the pavement outside. City busses whisked headlights across those awfully tacky statues standing sentinel on either side of Monsieur LaCroix's main entrance. Looking at them irritated the woman, to be honest. They were just so awkward, nestled against these aggressive lines of industrial architecture, looming out in the thoroughfare like very expensive garden gnomes. She felt bad for them, really… poor gaunt, weedy creatures. So misplaced. But then again, Ventrue – shrewd as they were – did tend to directly equate 'taste' with 'price-tag.' Poor onyx guardsmen. Poor Monsieur LaCroix. Such a fortunate thing he had her consult on hand – not that the dear man ever truly made good use of it.

Joelle bit her longest nail – not hard enough to break it, but only to bend. She was just so terribly bored.

"Uh, Ms. Lefevre?" A fly was buzzing behind her, hammering his flat, penguin footsteps on the spotless lobby tile. Magenta lips pursed into an annoyed period-point. How that sloppy hound's tongue butchered her name! She did not glance away from the calendar. Disregard was the only way to avoid killing him. "Ms. Lefevre. Um – it's about time for me to punch out, real soon here. Gotta' get heading home. Try to nab some sleep before the sun comes up, there. Heh-heh."

No reaction.

Bernie pawed at his coat collar; its imitation leather kept choking him, zipper cutting into swollen neck flaps. The discount security badge gleamed dismally in an overhead light, a dab of bronze on a cotton blue pocket. "Well, anyway. Yep. I'm strolling on out of here. Just so you know. You want me to walk you to your car, there, Ms. Lefevre?" (_There_. Always with "there" and "yep" and "you know." Disgusting, perspiring riceball of a man – he tried to escort her out every night; she never let him.)

Joelle flicked up one hand, polish glittering, all the worldly acknowledgement she ever gave this human. Cat eyes did not look at him. If this offended Officer Krantz, he made no note of it. There was only a typical bluster – an uncomfortable shift, a clogged sweat gland, an indicative fussing with his jacket. Her unsympathetic fingers continued tipping out time slots into which Mr. LaCroix's winter meetings might be booked. Her mouth traded theatrical pouting for very definitive dislike. She held the cool expression until he scuttled off towards his proper place: a drab and lonely corner somewhere, preferably… a nook tucked well out-of-sight so that creatures like her need not endure such fatty pesterings much longer. Chunk's so-called gentility and career history were nothing to brag about. She couldn't imagine why he insisted on doing just that every passing chance. _'Sad, revolting little wombat. Someone really should see to him eventually. That is so humiliating.'_

It was a mild relief when he left the premises. It always was. Out of all those ridiculous, oblivious kine who'd chased at her heels, this one was the very worst.

Disinterested with life, smitten hayseeds, and her employer's conference arrangements, Joelle lingered for another half-hour before buzzing in the daytime replacement and logging out of LaCroix Foundation Network.

She stood up, rolled her neck to hear the vertebrae pop, and clacked into Venture Tower's floor-one ladies' room on pinched toes.

The bathrooms in this corporate building were marlbed, dim, and glowing orange. Light scones shaped into seashells provided only the bare, pretentious minimum of illumination. The potted forest ferns wilted. The mirrors were massive and, in this wee hour dark, emitted a blur that softened the cardinal-blush edges of Ms. Lefevre's business jacket. She perked them up. She leant over the expensive wash counter, brushing aside a crumpled brown frond, and dotted carefully at her lashes. Mascara stung them. Water hummed in unused toilet pipes. Automatic faucets flicked on and off, hypersensitive to movement and touch. It was silent enough to have heard herself breathe. Cold, cold – air conditioning rattled through these vents year-round, from early June to late December – because Sebastian LaCroix saw no reason to accommodate the complaining bodies of mortals. This did not bother Joelle. Her legs were bare and immune to the dry, discomforting temperature. Her constitution was blasé.

A glimmer rattled the insides of her handbag. Distracted, the Toreador plucked out a cellular phone and held it aloft, poking at new e-mail icons. A fresh message from Ms. Woeburne held fort there, barely even complete, as though its sender didn't have time to finish her words: _**M. Strauss wants meeting w. SL Dec. 14th. Arrangements ASAP. -W**_

"_W_" was getting rather too big for her outdated shoes, if you'd have asked Lefevre, and the Tower receptionist did not appreciate this rank shift whatsoever. To think! That dormouse had been raggedy, sarcastic and laughably insecure when she'd arrived, shuffling into this city as though half expecting it might slurp her gawky self up. My, but how important and official Sebastian's fledgling had suddenly become – only a few underhanded deals, handshakes and company presentations later. So much _authority_ in her abbreviated texts; so much demand for punctuality in those irksome beeps. Oh, it was almost too much to bear. Serena had been growing progressively more insufferable since her promotion, a title that meant nothing beyond extra clerical work and a few stodgy parties. Irritating girl! Dressing up and bolstering about like a businessman. Acting like some Junior-Prince to good Camarilla employees several years her better! Ugh, but it burned in an ungrateful way. Add everything to that horrid debacle with the unlicensed copying of so many database files last July, and it was truly a mystery.

W! As if she owned the entire letter!

Joelle narrowed her eyes at it, puckered, and directed the note into her To-Do List. _'Cueing up Chantry visits a week in advance – no more? So inconsiderate. There's hardly a free hour to be had!' _Mr. LaCroix's appointment-planning Tuesday was her least favorite time of the month. It did not used to be. And it was not jealousy that now made this so – not in the conventional sense, at least. The woman had little interest in strutting about inter-faction Jyhad, giving herself nosebleeds over details and stomachaches from paranoid squabbling… no, Toreador energies were better spent elsewhere. She _certainly_ had no desire to personally address the city's Anarch Problem, toeing that hair's-width line between barbarian representative and double-snitch. But filing never failed to upset Mlle. Lefevre – since Serena Woeburne, Sebastian's dismal, mousey Childe – first dragged her average carcass out of a London desk chair to greet his steadfast receptionist. That hand had been so plain! So clammy! What was it about the droll creature that made her worthy of Monsieur's formal commendation? What was it that pushed her into captainhood when _she_ was still organizing, scheduling, writing memos and rolling out the first-floor welcome mat?

Ah, who knew? Just one of those frustrating little thorn-needles of unlife.

She applied another coat of lipstick, strode past the idling security display one last time, and decided to leave. It was three o'clock in the gusty Los Angeles morning. The information desk's daylight-hours ghoul should've already been on his way downstairs, a tedious gentleman who specialized in bureaucratic blockading and brought with him a very large German Sheppard wrapped in Kevlar. Joelle didn't care for the way that thing panted or the dead, dumb way it looked at her. But alas, safety was priority – Monsieur LaCroix's safety, that is – and she often passed them, even on those casual occasions the Toreador checked-out early. Lefevre simply wasn't in the mood tonight. Boredom compounded with animal spit could only worsen her already unpleasant attitude. She set the monitors to standby, swiped her secretarial keycard through the registry scan, and then discreetly tucked it back inside a fold of padded blazer.

The neck chain nipped at her collarbone like badly-shaven rhinestones. It glistened as she sashayed out Venture Tower's front door.

Downtown seethed people at all hours, naturally, but this particular stretch of sidewalk was thankfully quiet. Cabs continued milling by well into the a.m., spilling from their windows drunken club-hoppers and late-night corporate alike. Joelle ignored them. She rounded the dreary bus stop, wound her way through several ominous lampposts, and crossed into the skyscraper's staff parking lot. Flood lights pushed aside the risk of darkness; her lined eyes saw through shadows, impervious but aware. One could not be too careful – not with all these Anarchs and Sabbat and the Rancorous Whomever wiring bombs to Camarilla cars. She remembered how badly Ms. Woeburne attempted to look un-frazzled as their newly-appointed Seneschal reported her Audi was no more. She remembered Mr. de Luca, enflamed before his time. She particularly remembered the way Sebastian had thrown his telephone across the penthouse and ordered her – in so many cool, unkind, resentful words – to have his Childe shuttled here, a temper-tantrum search for competence in the middle of the night.

What a mess. What a mess!

Mlle. Lefevre swooped into her cabriolet – trademark, cinnamon red – slammed the door, and drove home.

She had no impressions of being followed. It was much too quiet tonight. December silence was chilling in more ways than one, but she was a clever woman; she did not put stock in terror threats and Free-State boogedy-tales.

It was still quiet when Joelle pulled her car into Skyeline's garage, wheels giving a curt snort. It was quiet when she crossed blacktop and moved into the complex proper, when she thought about feeding from the worthless-but-moderately-attractive policeman napping on a green lounge sofa, and when she brushed this idea off with a picky sigh. It was quiet in the horrid-looking elevator, her robust skin washed in flickering blue. And, of course, it was quiet when the lady swished into her Floor Four suite, clapped on the bulbs, ignored the hungry angelfish tank and looped her charming jacket onto a spare hanger. There was already a list of mundane messages blinking on the answering machine, but they went overlooked. She sauntered into the bathroom straightaway. She didn't even bother stepping out of her ruby-red Kleins.

Powder to powder – the lifestyle of both Toreador Poseur and the lowest Brujah, one in blush and the other in gunfire.

Bent over the sink, running warm water to dabble her face, Joelle saw she'd forgotten to hang up her pass card. It tumbled out of the woman's frock, jerking on its links, an ugly silver glint in the makeup mirror. It caught her eye.

As did the eyes – a second silvery glint – that appeared in the glass behind her.

A mean expression. A committed, hateful grimace.

And Joelle winced, and she stiffened, and her head was between Nines Rodriguez's hands before she could wrench out a scream.

The chain did not pop. Her neck did – ripped from her shoulders, brutal and clean, skull wrest from its cords with a macabre firecracker sound and thumped into the sculpted cream bathtub. Her spine did, pulled in two. Her vessels did, spraying sticky carmine. Her blood speckled the mirror, the floor, the wrinkled shower curtain, the overhead shade, blue coat, black shoes, large – barbarian – hands. But that cheap, weak chain remained intact. The card that dangled from it was unharmed.

It landed in a steaming puddle, found a new home in the Anarch's fist, and Nines Rodriguez was gone before her body turned to dust.

White fire and weightlessness and Joelle Lefevre died watching her pretty herringbones melt across the tile.


	70. Nottingham

**Nottingham**

Her allegiance had become a seesaw.

Serena was standing on the alley sidewalk outside _Confession_, arms wrapped around herself to ward off December, fingers rumpling jacket sleeves, bass thrumming her temples, feet aching in too-tight shoes – _pacing_. Brown curls gnarled in the bitter wind. Soles clacked the concrete. Her guts echoed with the loss of old convictions. Her stomach heaved.

Nine-thirty. It was 9:30 p.m. in the Los Angeles night, and he was not here.

"This is the fifth time I've called you," Ms. Woeburne said into her phone, too frightened at this point to yell. Her insides twisted into pipe-cleaner knots; they leaked adrenaline, bile and something that burned like pesticide. The car that drove past flashed sallow light up and down the Ventrue's dark, quiet eyes. Red strobe pulsed inside the renovated chapel's stained walls, shattering through paned windows, pimpling the asphalt outside. She fingered the plastic keycard in her pants pocket. Dead hands threatened to sweat. "I hope to God you have a good reason for this. It goes without saying that we don't have much time. Nine-thirty-three. If you stroll in within the next five minutes to get this pass, that will still leave us only a little over two hours. That's two hours in which you must drive down to Landa, break in, find what you need and get out. I cannot push the shift change any farther than I already have. Work fast. Your window is closing, and I will not be able to open it again."

She swallowed. She wet her lips. She scraped at the laminated edges of a "borrowed" tag laden with some staid Ventrue face that was not hers. Its name read Phillip Nelson; this meant nothing to Serena.

A quarter-past eight, when she'd last rang this number, Ms. Woeburne had shouted "Hurry the fuck up!" Now the woman muttered only "Get yourself _here_," and closed her cell with a definitive click. It hit her pocket like a cement brick. Her nerves were painfully, morbidly cold.

The battered red truck that flicked its blinkers and turned at the intersection of West Ninth Street and Peoples Gas was not his, not yet – but he would be here, because he had to. Their chances of success were slim. The margin of error was needle-sized. Her fail-safes were shamefully, Benedict brutal. These ugly last-resorts were excruciating to think about with any degree of seriousness, but after so many nights left juggling grenades, Seneschal Los Angeles had learned that foresight overrode moral qualms. She was a young Ventrue, all else considered. But she was also the Childe of Sebastian LaCroix – and perhaps she could now understand what it meant to act like one.

Tonight she had crossed the Rubicon. Serena Woeburne was prepared to be a monster of her own.

_Beep_.

"I'm starting to believe either something has happened to you or you've had second thoughts," the officer said when she dialed again, fifteen minutes later. "If you are alive and you haven't abandoned this, contact me immediately. Cutting it any closer to the mark than we already are is dangerous. _Call me_. Tell me you're on your way. Tell me you're under the radar and can't make it. Tell me _something_. I will not wait here much longer." This was the closest she would allow herself to begging. Not that any case Ms. Woeburne might've made would be likely to affect him in a significant way; Baron Angeltown had proven himself all but impervious to fledgling pleas, direct threats, and especially to sinking ships that were not his. He would not act out of heroics or charity. He would not be swayed by evidenceless scavenger hunts or unsteady promises of glory, and in that way, perhaps Nines Rodriguez was more Ventue-minded than he'd ever admit. Ancillae Brujah geared themselves towards territory gains and political revenge. Whatever the fine-print reasons, that is who LA's Free-State spokesman was.

And the dangling Seneschal – though her lungs felt tapped, scraped and filled with muddy water – could not be terribly surprised. She was not stunned by Idealist hypocrites anymore. A calloused, wizened part of her long ago expected _this_ is what the Anarch Prince had always meant with all his offers of help.

The man was confident he had her pinned firmly between two deadly Jyhad walls, Serena was sure. Perhaps he was right. Her prior indiscretions – with Lily, Naim Carroll, then the Sabbat suppression – weighed heavily on Ms. Woeburne's résumé, and their arrangements in Santa Monica built another glass wall in her fortress. One had to be both prudent and very cautious in determining which unlicensed feats would earn Sebastian's ire and which would boost his respect for you. Like any other maneuver, this one must be played carefully; it must not be permitted to multiply out of controllable parameters. Strategically-placed cameras could not be perceived as enemy sympathizing rather than agency monitoring. Negotiations with an Anarch chief could not be interpreted as treason against state or her progenitor. Forget these new entitlements and contacts; Seneschal Los Angeles could not afford either accusation, for it meant her removal from Mr. LaCroix's side, and there were no delusions about that: "removal" was Final Death. The Ventrue had been fortunate with her Sire thus far… at least, she thought she had. Who really knew?

She realized what the bits and pieces of her activity looked like – as though the ambitious young official had been stacking her chips beneath their Prince's table, moving to eat her ancestor in clan tradition. Or, at least, waiting for him to fall… waiting to push him to the wolves she'd baited. Would anyone believe her capable of that? A year ago, the notion was ridiculous; now, Serena was not sure. She was no Elder, but she _was_ the Childe of Sebastian LaCroix. LaCroix – a new name, a detested name – a name that his fellows and nemeses alike associated with _snake_. Arguing was useless. They could easily call her a snakelet. They were free to take whatever they wished out of context, spin it to look like treachery – against him, against the Camarilla, against their patriarchal way of life.

What did it look like _in_ context?

They would say she was conniving and wicked and had manipulated Nines Rodriguez, made him into her blooding hound with paychecks, false promises of power, Ventrue bargains. Or they would say she was criminally weak – that he had intimidated her, a council puppet dumbly forwarding his motions.

Either way, they would end them both.

Serena was not positive she could outfox the wolf-Prince at his loyalty game, and withdrawing was not an option. But she would not lag dejected into standby while he had the propensity to destroy her.

_**Terminate. -W**_

The text message whisked off to Leonard with no further explanation – a technical wizard and wonderfully, conveniently new to this life. She could've felt like a user. She didn't. There wasn't enough left to Woeburne's conscience by this particular night. He would be unable to concoct stories or to procure lies (perhaps truths) about Santa Monica's political environment… at least, not ones admissible in a Camarilla courtroom. Nosferatu engineers were less-liked than Ventrue politicians, and while they might suspect Gary Golden was pulling that neonate's strings, some pet Seneschal was not a top-five candidate. Without conspiracy theories, dead cameras were cameras – no more.

The keycard sat impatiently in her jacket. She'd burn it.

'_Why am I doing this?' _It wasn't a question to which Serena had an easy answer. When had her concerns broadened to weigh the wellbeing of their species over her Sire's investments? When had she dared think herself that influential or resourceful? Ms. Woeburne hated the Kuei-Jin, an instinctual aversion to ethnocentric creatures who regarded their kind like so many wild dogs: savage, yapping, inconvenient. The Camarilla encouraged similar against those devils. Sebastian had always slipped dirty remarks about Cathayan duplicity in private as well as public eye. Was this enough to make her creep around him, worried for their people? All because the clues of Johansen's death screamed "assassination?"

If she did not, the Kuei-Jin might undermine them all – but that seemed like a concern for bigger sharks than she.

One thing was clear to Ms. Woeburne now, standing on the other edge of it all. Motives did not matter – not fear, not survival drive, not the cleanliness of her intentions. Specifics did not matter, which varied depending on whose report you read. What mattered was that this woman had been used and in turn, she had used those who profited from her. Not deliberately – at least not consciously. But this was the way it had been since Los Angeles cracked its door for her. She cried deception and manipulation, unfair treaties and Anarch menacing, but Serena had played both her Sire and her rival as cards in this game. Fearful Childe run to Sebastian to protect her from the local ex-Baron – first from his fists, then from his blackmailing, then from the red handprint speaking with him had plastered on her back. And she appealed to Nines Rodriguez when she needed protection from the mechanisms of her Prince. Cutting one from herself would leave the Seneschal swinging from the other, but were there any other options in an endgame? You could not snap both your lifelines at once. You might as well take garden shears to the arteries that sucked on your heart.

Why risk that? Why throw herself into a higher peg of Jyhad because of an incriminating insignia; a murder; an impersonal loathing of everything Kuei-Jin; and Beckett's vague, infuriating warnings? She had no experience with Chinatown. She was not a soldier or a Kindred patriot. She had no business as a Seneschal. Why bother?

…because Sebastian had put her here – a bumbler in a politician's role, a tug-of-war rope between Anarch relations and punitive Camarilla law – and Serena was beginning to guess at the real reasons why.

Ms. Woeburne stared at her watch, at the flip of a minute between 9:59 and 10:00. It passed, and it left her alone as she'd been all night.

Serena blinked, fingers squeezing her phone, and walked calmly back to the waiting car with a name and a number on her mind: _Therese Voerman_.

She would forfeit every fact, shaving of knowledge, point of status, to return to a place where obedience was simple. She would've gladly buzzed off her own left hand if it meant remembering how to trust without second-guessing. She would willingly kill to know who her enemies were. She would abandon all this hard-won dignity to cower blindly on Sebastian LaCroix's coattails and conscionably fire her shots at Nines Rodriguez. These shades of grey were nauseating. She would give anything to see in black and white again.

She would have given anything.

But she would not be a sacrificial lamb.

**II.**

The voice in Ms. Woeburne's messagebox was Sebastian's, and it said only this: "GET. HERE. NOW."

Serena, whose cleverness had come with pessimism, automatically assumed the Prince's anger was meant for her. She drove to LaCroix's headquarters under this pretext, accelerator smashed by her nervous toe, nails sinking into the stick. The exact source of his rage didn't bear thinking about, as she had no answers for any transgression it might've been. Seneschal Los Angeles spent that ride trying to swallow her rising heart. When four tires rolled to stop in the company parking garage, Ms. Woeburne was shaken by an uncharacteristic desire to pray – but like many other fallacies she'd had since entering this life, pushed it aside, and replaced emotion with coldblooded logic. She still had a lifeline. She still had the rage of Therese Voerman to offer as her scapegoat, only one quick call away.

She turned off the ignition, and scaled to the top of Venture Tower.

Sebastian was hollering as Seneschal LA strode numbly down his penthouse hall; she could hear every insult and ill-tempered pause of a disgruntled Prince on the telephone. This reassured her only to a point. Here was evidence that his fury was divided and unparticular rather than private and condensed; it allowed a small amount of hope that her throat hadn't been dotted with Tear Here lines. Perhaps Mr. LaCroix had simply been in a fit when he'd left that discouraging message. _'Certainly wouldn't be the first time he's taken others' incompetence out on me…' _But Beckett's parting words hoisted those thin hairs on the back of Woeburne's neck: _be cautious._ She was.

Something pounded deep in the Ventrue's gullet as she reached for that doorknob. It felt like her heart, and it tasted like fear. _'If you want to survive,' _instinct warned, crisp and cool when she was not. _'You will forget your misgivings until you're out of this office. Do not think about the Kuei-Jin tonight.'_

Serena squared all her circles and entered.

"Do YOU know about this?" Sebastian demanded the moment she appeared, phone clutched in one hand, standing flustered across his penthouse as though Ms. Woeburne could possibly have an answer.

She did the one thing available, given zero information and a challenging Sire: blinked, shrugged, and made an expression of cluelessness that irritated him into explaining.

A ruffled Mr. LaCroix, bothered by juggling two inept conversations at once, barked "Just deal with it!" into the receiver and clicked 'off.' His tumultuous eyes were outraged and clear in their anger. Blond hair looked as though it might lift along cat hackles. The suit he wore had been dented with deep fingermarks along both lapels, as though those punitive hands had worried and tugged and fisted against seams for an hour. This concerned her. But it did not terrify – because honestly, if Sebastian suspected Serena guilty of half the things she'd done over these past several months, he'd have killed her one toe past his door. He would not be able to tolerate it with a straight face and mind-games. His skills at pretense were daunting, but his patience was too short for such an elaborate charade.

She… hoped so, anyway.

"I hate this city. I hate this damned country," he bristled, slammed the phone onto his desk, and swiped towards that towering black window. A yellow moon flattened pale and indifferent down the sides of skyscrapers. His teeth forked past their lips. "Prince of Los Angeles, and over what do I rule? A no-man's-land. Over whom? Malcontents and paranoia. Hah! What is this Domain to me? Sand. Dust. Concrete. No history. It's a god-damned wasteland. What I've won myself here, child, is a cracked up kingdom of problems; the old Don dead and done and me struck out to clean up his messes." Her Sire steamed – pacing the room, popping his knuckles, shaking his head with its sharp, soldier chin. This was not wrath over botched missions. This was frustration – simple, uncomplicated and as childlike as an executive beating his fists on the walls must always be. "Pah! 'Prince of Los Angeles!' I inherit disorder. I inherit the desert."

"What's happened, Sir?" Serena tried, soothing as much as she dared. She was barely capable of comfort now; this world had dulled everything woman about her, hitting predator instinct with a whetstone. "Tell me what's been done and I'll do what I can to correct it."

"Sometimes I think razing it and starting anew would be more practical," Sebastian snapped, flopping into his chair. He sunk down like a brooding boy-king. "Do you know what is worse than having no answer to your problems, Seneschal?" (She was not expected to reply; she didn't.) "Holding the answer in your hand and knowing no way to use it… something that has happened to me twice in the past few nights. I have a solution in my grasp, Serena," he promised. "I've had it for a long time. I am sick of standing about, watching them burn down my assets, waiting for someone to pass me a damned key to it! Research – useless. Allies – useless. And – hah! When you finally _think_ you have made progress, what do they tell you? What is the next stumbling block? _Ignorance_! Networking in this city is trading one brand of incompetence for another. And now – on top of everything else; everything infinitely more important – I find out that the public enemy is breaching our _warehouses_, of all things. I will not be made a fool of. We do not wait," he spat, slouched, gripping his arm rests as though they made a throne. "We act."

The ground dropped out from under her.

"Do you know that Joelle is gone?" the Prince shouted, snorting.

Warehouses – Sebastian said _warehouses_ – and yet. Yet her skull was still here, firmly attached to her neck. Her blood still swirled within choked, waterless veins. Her face was blanker than empty space. There was no time to hiss treachery_, _no time to spit _motherfucker_, no time to stick her thumbs in both eyes and shove deep into the sockets because '_Oh my God, he did it – he did it anyway! – and I am finished, and this is over, and how_ _could I be so fucking stupid…!'_

There was no time for any of that – because for all of it, she was still intact.

'_He does not know. He cannot know.'_

Ms. Woeburne swallowed. It felt like she'd just gulped a rock.

"Gone where?" Serena asked, though the question seemed like it came from outside of her body. "Where would she go?"

"I don't know." LaCroix swept a hand, her whereabouts a trifling matter in his vast problem-desert. "I can't imagine where that woman might actually _have_ to go. Someone has probably killed her. Whoever it was used her card to enter the facility, because I doubt she had any business nosing around there. Of course, security was asleep – they cover everywhere but their damned shifts. What the hell do you _want_?" Sebastian growled at his door when a curt knock peppered against it. "Don't talk to me through the bloody wood. What is wrong with you people? Come in!"

And in stalked Ms. Gutierrez – every bit as shoulder-heavy, hassled, scowling and hair-dyed as Serena knew her to be – dragging Officer Krantz by one flabby arm.

"I apologize for interrupting," she clapped out, black ponytail clinging to those obvious jacket pads in spit-curls that made Serena's eyes water. White plaid; corporate militarism. A good trooper. Her ivory suit looked awkward and overpowering with gold watch, brown blush and a hawkish profile. What defined this career-focused Ventrue beyond all else, however – at least to LaCroix's Childe – was that way she walked, leant slightly forward as though her tall body was too forceful for its female frame, a masculine gate in high-heeled shoes. The agent's contralto still rang as strong as it was totally devoid of family or softness. Chunk was lost behind her. "I know you're both busy. But this matter was flagged ASAP."

"Maribeth," Serena prompted, straightening up and greeting her with a cordial nod. "Nice to see you."

A response-nod and stiff "Woeburne" was all she received in turn. It was an adequate sign of how Los Angeles felt about their young infanta's flimsy new 'Seneschal' pin.

"You had better have a reason," Sebastian threatened, in no mood to entertain. The fat kine looked as colorless as those machine-wrapped, powdered snack-cakes he scarfed by boxfuls downstairs.

Gutierrez flashed a knowing look. "I'm sorry, Mr. LaCroix, but you're going to want to hear this…" And she steered Bernie forward, dispassionate about his look of horror or bitter sweat-smell, giving a nudge that said _talk_ in the language of mafia lords. "There, now; tell him what you just told me. About Ms. Lefevre last night. Go on, and be quick."

The human's face was spotted in perspiration. He dabbed at it with a handkerchief to no avail. Chandelier light on a balding head, this room full of corporate wealth, the icy stares of three Ventrue entrepreneurs – all contributed to the chill that stung Krantz's skin and made his pores leak. Damp spots grew beneath both massive arms and the baby-blue security uniform began sticking to his naval. Officer Chunk cleared his throat into a doughy fist. "Um. Well. All right, then." He didn't know _why_ it was relevant; his tie was starting to choke. "Yesterday evening, when I was getting ready to go on home… y'see, sometimes I offer to walk Miss Joelle, there, to her car. Her being – you know – and this city like it is. Full of nefarious sorts, and all. Just terrible for a woman to be wandering around through it on her lonesome, is what I always say. Anyways…" Bernie must've noticed how his employer's expression was cooling rapidly with every second. "Last night, the Number Thirty-Four – down at the bus station, over there – took a little longer than usual. So I was sitting there waiting on it, right. And I see Miss Joelle leave. But here's the rub…" A pudgy hand tugged on his too-tight collar. "I, uh. I was just about to get up, when down the street a ways, I see this… this guy, you know." The man was tugging off his topmost shirt button now, cheek creases glistening. "Kind of scrubby. Doesn't seem like he should be hanging around an upstanding place of business like this one. I dunno' what it was, exactly, but he looked suspicious to me or something, I guess. As though he didn't want anyone to see him. But a trained eye like mine – not so easy to fool. And, uh. As I was saying." Another cough as Krantz's sloppy Windsor Knot loosened. "Figured he might'a been up to no-good. I was about to say something, you know – not appropriate for just some person off the block to look hard at a lady like that – but before I could, she drove off. No trouble after that. Guy got in his own car and moved on, too."

Mr. LaCroix bored holes in Bernard's story. Ms. Gutierrez, standing rigidly at his side, looked as though she'd won a minor victory.

"Don't you worry – I made sure she was locked in safe and sound," the guard added, managing to crack a grin. "You can tell Joelle it's all smooth sailing whenever she wants to come back to work, there. Officer Chunk's got her back."

"Describe this man," Sebastian ordered. His face froze with deadly interest, as a lion tracks foundering gemsbok.

"Oh, uh – I don't know, Mr. LaCroix. Just some Mexican guy. I mean Hispanic. I mean Latino," he corrected; let no one say Bernie needed sensitivity training. "Looked sort of sick, now that I think about it. Real pale."

Evidence enough for Sebastian LaCroix.

He whirled on Serena with unwarranted blame.

"He was YOUR responsibility," Prince Los Angeles snarled, teeth white and dangerously bare in the company of kine, forgetting all the distance since put between his Seneschal and the Anarch Movement. Ms. Woeburne quailed under the harshness and the suddenness of this response. She looked uneasily to the witness, finding no support from Maribeth; she winced. It was hard to believe this little cut of unfairness – her Sire's reproach – could crash the Ventrue's confidence as though it had not grown at all. The woman reeled at how much that instant felt like sitting in Sebastian's car, holding his slap-burn on her cheek. She fought with the immediate fear and tried to level it. _'I am a ranking member of this court'_ was a weak reminder, given the mountain of Camarilla lies Serena currently sat on. Might as well have been bones.

So this had been Nines's plan to conquest – strip the keycard off a slain secretary, and leave his inconvenient accomplice swinging out to dry.

She felt nothing. Not even disgust.

"I know. I know that, sir. I've been monitoring them, and I…" The worlds flowed crystal and smooth enough to make her balk. This was supposed to be difficult, wasn't it – shame for stooping to criminals' petty level of Jyhad? It didn't. On the contrary, Seneschal Woeburne was shaken by how easily the betrayal slipped off her tongue, turning malice into reality with only a need to survive echoing beside it. "They're mobilizing in Santa Monica. I suspect Rodriguez is coordinating with Jeanette Voerman, though I couldn't prove it. Not convincingly. But this…" Pretty lies tasted better than the gruesome truth of what she had done – what she was about to do. "A Sabbat interest was hit in the suburbs not long ago, in Santa Monica. As was Compton. And it… well, they matches the patterns here. I have tape, Mr. LaCroix – a lot of it. I can get it for you tonight, if you'll only give me the time. All I need is time."

It was a promise that meant her recovery and Nines's axe, but it happened as though it meant nothing to her. She looked at him, the temperature within her mind and throat like ice. Her hands did not shake. Her voice was stanchly clear. It sounded honest.

Pretty lies – they felt like the truth.

"Let Therese Voerman deal with her sister," Sebastian said. "I want everything you have."

With that, he dismissed aggressive Ms. Gutierrez and her idiot witness, clicking a pen as his door shut behind them.

Deception and twisted words – this woman had fought hard to earn her Prince's faith, having gained nothing like the cold approval he granted her at that moment. There was no surprise and doubt. There were no probing questions. He accepted her worthiness in the form of video reels. _Pretty lies _– was this all it took to win loyalties? No more than that – not from street-trash, not from a viper Prince? Blood ran strong and arctic from head to heart to hands to the veins in the Seneschal's tongue. She could hate Nines Rodriguez for this knife between her shoulder blades, but she would not think herself his moral better any more.

Serena looked at him with disaster averted and a mouth full of another man's death warrant.

_This_ is what it meant to be Ventrue.

"I cannot be distracted," LaCroix announced, focused in a way she rarely saw. His fingers steepled together over the desk, forming a line between both storm-blue eyes. He was indisputable. She did not try. "They're a nuisance and I have been culling them where I've been able, but you need to think big picture, Miss Woeburne. You need to think in terms of _epoch_. We have one sure means of redefining our authority here, child, and I will wait for some doddering historians to tell me when I may secure this city no longer."

"The sarcophagus," she noted, not sure why it occurred to her, stomach thrust up somewhere in the vicinity of her lungs. "Are you talking about the Ankaran Sarcophagus?"

Her Sire gave his nod. "This is my main priority."

A powerful bargaining chip, certainly – one that might've made Los Angeles race for cover or explosives to be rid of the ominous, cryptic thing – but Serena had never imagined he would write off Beckett for it. Nothing Sebastian said eased her doubts about the Kuei-Jin; everything confirmed her suspicions that it had _not_ been the Sabbat, and it had _not_ been Anarchs plotting within themselves. There was no use dishing out fault for every harm that had befallen her, trying to point fingers at singular men or entire factions. There was even less use trying to identify who had cast each blow thrown these past few months. Greed drove violence, and this sarcophagus lay at the center of it all; it oozed guarantees of power over the heretics and Caine fanatics, alike.

"What about the Beckett? We need him, don't we?" It was the only thing she could say to avoid turning that finger toward herself. _'No one but himself – or his associate – could puzzle out those notes. That's what he said; that's what he told me last night. Last night...' _It almost felt like last year.

"Beckett," LaCroix snorted, slapping both palms flat across his desk top. The sound startled her. She jumped. "Oh, believe me. I have tried to separate us from this crippling need for _Beckett_. But it seems not all things are as simple as acquiring an answer. No," the Ventrue sighed, nose wrinkling, annoyance surging past his insults. "You must figure out how to _apply_ that answer, and as I am beginning to understand: there are precious few others who can."

"And the professor was here for that. Had he not left, Sir… had Johansen not been murdered…" But Serena could not finish the thought; it toed too close to revealing all she knew. Nails raked the frizz from her fine brown hair. The tie she'd wound in it was no use; her roots absorbed and proudly displayed the woman's anxiety. "Beckett was working on our solution. At least, I thought he was. What reason would he have to-?"

"Beckett was stringing us along," Sebastian barked – a wild, mean laugh. He threw both hands into the air, exasperated, where they fired out before folding angrily behind his head. "Holding out on us. Keeping his research and resources from us all this time. Who knows why? Who knows what tricks that charlatan was plying? This Domain is not a game," he swore. "I will not abide fiddling with my enterprises – not by anyone. Not even him."

He paused. He stared at her.

"Do you know where Beckett is?" the Prince asked, low and cajoling, an unpleasant stroke along her innermost rib. Serena thought perhaps she had been Dominated.

Fortunately, "I don't, Sir" was the only response Ms. Woeburne had for him.

LaCroix pursed. "Shame," he sighed, stabbed the intercom, and delivered an order to a front desk Serena no longer recognized. Objective: "Find Beckett and bring him back here. I don't care how."

This was how it happened, then.

Serena waited for direction.

"Seneschal."

"Sir?" Her response was instant – _speak, spaniel_! Sebastian closed his eyes.

"Contact the Primogen," he commanded, and beyond all she feared of Kuei-Jin plots and Anarch schemes, the old way he ordered her about was a comfort. The Seneschal was not proud, temples still throbbing disbelief, panic and hope settling itself in a thick patina on her taste buds. She was grateful. "Tell them to assemble in the theatre immediately and then head there straightaway. Be swift and courteous. You will deliver a message for me."

She shuffled on the edge of Kindred war crime, assisting a would-be khan who parlayed with Cathayan shock troops, but she was alive. _She was alive!_

She was not going to die.

Not tonight.

"Very well. What shall I tell them?"

Her Prince struck his fingertips across the polished wood. Each one hit like a hunting rifle. "Announce the Blood Hunt on Nines Rodriguez."

She did; because in this world, your fathers and your bloodhounds were both primed to let you down.

* * *

**Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;  
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world**

**The best lack all conviction, while the worst  
Are full of passionate intensity.**  
_-from William Butler Yeats's "The Second Coming"_


	71. Shout at the Devil

**Shout at the Devil**

Jeanette found this whole partisan thing tiresome.

Oh, she had good reason to be mighty annoyed with the Camarilla, Voerman Junior supposed, flopped crossways across her heart-shaped bed with golden pigtails dangling. There was that nasty way the new company head-honcho cut short their expansion, for one. _Por dos_, the ugly spat with LA's old Top Kick – no offense to Ninesy (not too much, anyway) – had hobbled this once-hopping Free-State precinct into a ghost town, leaving all empty beachheads and blank grass lots. Those sourpuss Ventrue hadn't exactly painted flattering portraits of Santa Monica or its sister-queens since Sebastian Boyface LaCroix rolled up in his big-black hetman limousine, either. And, if that wasn't enough cause to stick out her pink tongue and bristle, there remained the simple fact Therese thought paying them lip-service was so _very_ important. Always hustling off to Nocturne Theatre, sharking around at business functions, praising every pretty word that fell out of their new Prince's equally pretty mouth... it all made Sissy _unbearable_.

Besides. Anything Madame Chastity thought "important" was fair game enough for Jeanette.

She tangled a finger into the telephone cord, wiggled her toes against the pillowcase, and said _"hmmm."_

Nines must have heard meanness in her game, too, because he growled across the receiver. The static of wheels hitting potholes made his arguments spotty and unreliable – or was it the way Rodriguez's power reserves had been sifting through those bloody hands as of late? This particular vampire could appreciate desperate situations; still, winding up _The Asylum_'s phone bills on midnight chats with Anarch warlords was probably not the cleverest thing to do when Therese breathed ice down her neck. _"You brag about filling our coin jar a terrible lot for how fast you burn through it,"_ Sissy would say, sniffing that dainty ickle nose of hers, so smoothed and pressed and so perfectly coldhearted. Then she'd push her aside again, as though Jeanette were a sideshow for fat-bellied trailer trash, someone's private zoo. The way that prudish, stuck-up hypocrite talked certainly made her sad little sister feel like a starved roadside tiger, too – stripes all mangy and ribs poking out of her chicken coop. "Freak show?" "Dirty, diseased mind?" Sometimes you just wanted to slap her!

The woman huffed and dangled her head further over their mattress edge. One arm draped the ground. This hideous borrowed camisole Therese made her put on was itching fierce, and a girl like Miss Voerman was not tickled about skipping around in this damn burqa of an outfit. It smelled wicked, too – like Sissy's hairspray and mothballs. God forbid she update her closet to something even remotely tip-toeing towards the twenty-first century. Jeanette flattened the khaki skirt out and rolled her eyes, in a surly mood. "Tempting as some encrypted Ventrue files sound, I can't really wile away the hours letting you chat me up tonight, Brujah. There's some stupid Kindred to-do downtown in an hour and Queen Victoria is making me go. Seems like a big emergency."

"_I can fucking imagine so," _Nines spat, aggression jumping, anxieties tangled up with this little Camarilla red-alert. He muttered profanely, pinning the cell between ear and shoulder blade as manila folders spilled across his passenger seat. Truck tires loudly smeared tread marks across a stretch of Santa Monican street. Frustration made his words widely-spaced and clear. "_If I _had_ other resources, I'd use them. But if you have not noticed, I am somewhat in a bind right now. I need feedback on this and I need it fast. Thirty minutes – max. Shit. I may not even have that. So if you can't do this, save me time and just hang up the fucking telephone."_

"I still have to fix my hair. Can't you get Gary Golden to look into it, or something?" She flipped over, landing on bare ivory feet, hoisting up and stretching her back cheerleader-style. Vertebrae cracked. "Or are you and Hollywood having a tiff?"

"_No other alternative,"_ Rodriguez barked, ignoring the obvious attempt at nettling him. Zero fun, these gun-smoke revolutionaries – absolutely no fun, at all. _The Asylum_'s hostess trotted to her vanity and thumped down beside it, knees touching, feet turned inwards. It was a juvenile posture. She pulled on some ankle socks. _"I'd have put in a call to Gary, but no one's heard from his people since the Sabbat raids kicked into overtime out there. Probably bugged underground. Unless _you_ know where he is…?"_

She shook her head, pulling both pigtails out of it. "Negative, Ninesy. Gare-Bear is not exactly my biggest fan."

"_Motherfucker,"_ he cussed – meaning it this time – just in case Jeanette hadn't gotten the hint before.

"Language? You're speaking to a l-"

"_Don't think this shit won't rebound back to you," _the Brujah threatened, biting back panic. Predictable… flash that stoic, stonewall face right back at them, and they'd resort to bully-tactics and intimidation. Nice from a distance, but bargaining with one up-close made a girl think better of her old-fashioned tough-guy dreams. _"Don't think for a second that if I go down for this, your sister won't pull her own sidewalk up looking for evidence you had a hand in it. I have a vested interest in Santa Monica. If you can help me, you better as hell do it."_

The hairbrush stung as it raked through her mane, tresses matted and wild, infused with the liquor-bass-sweat of downstairs. She ripped strands out – gold fishing wire. "Oh, I don't doubt it, cowboy. No need to convince me. But you do have to try and understand what it's like creeping about in my booties right now. Normally, sweet thing, charity becomes me; you know I love lending a leg up to my poor Anarch brethren. But right now's a bit inconvenient. The more I deal to you, the worse it looks for me. So anything that crosses between us is going to have to be strictly on the down-low, and more so than usual." A burning scent rose up in the sisters' room, steam flushing from Jeanette's straightening iron. Split-ends singed between hot metal. "You're dying to see me, I can tell, but I just can't meet you in-person tonight. Therese has been putting chinks in my choke chain. Already grilled me once this week… and just yesterday, I caught that evil little busy-body snooping around my e-mail."

"_Fuck,"_ he swore again – this time, because there was nothing else to do – a fire at his back and front tires picking up speed towards LaCroix's garrote. _"Son-of-a-bitch."_

The Malkavian heaved a sigh.

Nines Rodriguez was in more than a bit of trouble; she could infer fear from the way his voice tightened and cut, sniff out the man's nervous state even from this far-flung little burb. What Jeanette could not assume, she knew through the context that trickled nightly through her personal grapevine. Such a sad, sad story. Much as it disappointed this Baron-hopeful to admit it, a character like that would never have asked _her_ for help (or menaced for it, more like) had Jyhad not pressed him bleeding against the boxing rope. Too bad, really. It might've behooved her to assist – paid back the woman's benefactor bone double later on – given old Ninesy still stood a shot in the dark at taking back his Free-State throne. Still, she hadn't been lying to him. There was no time for that… hands in hanks of bleached hair, winding it down, scrubbing off foundation with rough movements that felt progressively less like her.

Therese would be here soon.

'_Hurry up – don't let her in!' _Jeanette sucked her bottom lip, tasting stick, blue eye wide and reddening in the foggy mirror. _'She'll listen!'_

"Well, I just hate to see you in such a bind, new friend. So I'll get Bertie on it. He's a whiz at that sort of thing." Ice-pop fingers were creeping up the thatches of her spine. She fought against a sudden urge to pencil her eyebrows thick and dark. "Now, if that's all, I better skedaddle…"

But the Has-Been Baron wasn't game. _"Bertram Tung? No way. Hell no. That bastard's Cam,"_ he whuffed. It shouldn't have surprised her; ancillae never were sensible enough to accept favors at face-value. Jeanette fidgeted against the stool. She slid both feet into a pair of closed-toes. They felt constricting, pinching her pinkies, heels too serious to run in.

"Bertram? Pfft," she snorted, finally picking up the eyeliner. Large mascara stains beneath her swollen lids had been rubbed raw with washcloth strokes; they burnt. Her lips were stripped and ash-pale. They needed a new shade: _corporate black_. It was hard not reaching for the conservative vial, so she stuffed a disobedient hand under her bum and sat on it. What was that noise scraping at the door, kitten? Pump footsteps and an elevator _bing!_; she must've have heard them, pores sparking along both arms and down her sides. The vampire waited, frozen, until she knew it was only imagination playing naughty. "Bertram's whatever the highest bidder wants him to be, and while I can't buy out His Majesty the Prince, my payments are sooner and sweeter. He'll do it, because I'll ask him to."

"_Jesus Christ,_' Rodriguez grumbled, because he had a headache and no other options but to trust the mad hornet who'd landed in his web. _"I can't rely on that, Jeanette. You're asking me to rest this Domain on you batting your eyelashes at a Nosferatu; I can't-" _

"The way I see it: you don't have much choice, sweet thing."

"_Christ,"_ he said again – this time, it sounded weak. "_Look. I don't have time to argue with you about this. I am at the end of my rope, so you better as hell be sure. There a plan that goes with this little scheme? – because I'm going to be outside your door in ten minutes. Tell me where else to go, or I will kick that door down; I don't give a shit if the bitch does see me."_

"That wouldn't be very smart, Nines, honey. Not smart at all. Especially not when I'm about to save your neck. Listen close, compadre. You know where the sewage lines open up – that access gate just outside Brothers' Salvage?" A silence suggested he did, or that the Anarch could find it on his own. Jeanette rolled her eyes. Oh, that winning machismo. "It's right by this old rotting silo. The lock's never latched. Go down there, fork a left; there'll be this old maintenance storage space cleared-out. It's a bit of an office space for him these days. Inside that room, there's a steel cabinet on the far wall, just next to this old-school pressure meter. Put whatever you've got in there and Bertie'll be over to pick it up within the hour. You got all that?"

"_I don't have an hour,"_ was the only answer Nines gave.

"Aren't you bossy for a dead man! I'll tell him it's as urgent as urgent can be, dearest, but even still… you have to realize that Bertram Tung's not the most sociable sneak you'll meet. He's not going to shake your hand and jive about liberty like me. But he'll get whatever you put in that drop-off; it's become routine for us." She blinked. A vague, triangular space behind Voerman's forehead was beginning to sear. The girl might drill through an inch of skull and scratch brains to shush whatever that pressure was, if only it wouldn't kill her. A funny firecracker taste spread from her sinus passages to her tongue, zinging along the buds. It made Jeanette's throat feel too wide, as though her vocal cords were chained to free weights, a zamboni hitting her pitch. That was enough talking for now. She flipped open her laptop. Makeup canisters scattered about. "Better hurry there if you want his consult. And don't worry about returns. He'll get into your inbox faster than it'd take for you to write out the address."

"_It'll be there. Make sure he comes through and stays quiet. If this falls into someone else's hands, Jeanette, our heads are rolling."_

"Of course, sweetheart. You don't have to tell me twice." A pop of her mouth sealed the dark lipstick. A blonde fringe tucked neatly into its clip. A brief pang as the contact lens dropped over her mist-green eye, chased by saline solution, artificial coolness that ran over a cheek and dribbled on the countertop. She wiped it off with two digits, her others busy typing. "But I do, naturally, expect a little something from my Brujah business-partner in return."

"_Get this done right,"_ Nines swore, punching in the accelerator, _"and I'll give you anything you want."_

Jeanette cackled. She had already tipped out her message, and let the cursor hover a moment over 'send,' enjoying what power felt like beneath one fingertip. _'Hope you're near the PC, Bertram, sugar-pie…'_ (Not that he ever wasn't.) "Don't start making promises you can't keep, sunshine. Just keep my name out of your interrogations, yeah? I don't want any rain on my half of this freedom parade."

**Dear Bertie, **

**Hi babycakes! I have a teensy favor to ask you. Seems Nines Rodriguez is in hot water with you-know-who and needs the kind of help only a good nossie can provide. Sending him over to your drop with some very sensitive and very encrypted information. if you can go ahead and work your magic on it then send the stuff right on back, that'd be just too gentlemanly of you. ASAP plz! & no sell outs. Him and me are making friends lately so play nice. **

**p.s. This could turn out VERY well for you in the long run if things go well for him… which means things also go well for me, sugarplum, and oh-so sour for Therese. For now I will thank you with lots of luv in the usual way. ;) Also picked up some juicy gossip about the mafiosos you will flip over! will tell you all about it after this itsy-bitsy job's taken care of.**

**Thank you peaches! **

*** Jeanette ***

"You there, tiger?" He had said nothing since her instructions ended, but Voerman could still hear blacktop rumbling away, wind thripping against a cracked car window. "Because I don't know about you, being so quiet, but this all sounds like a done-deal to me. Are we seeing eye-to-eye?"

The Brujah's affirmative grunt wasn't as eager as she'd hoped, but it'd have to do.

Her guts squiggled.

She knew what that meant.

"Sissy's here. I have to go now. _Vaya con dios_, Ninesy," the girl said, head cocking, butchering it, voice thinning until it rang hollow. "Ciao!"

Jeanette clicked the mouse, closed her Dell, and hung up the telephone.

Therese was left holding the dial-tone, confused.

**II.**

Something was down here with him.

Nines Rodriguez was an old Anarch. He wore that title with as much dignity and severity as an ancilla could – with cannon-fodder hailing him chief at the same time LA's elders snorted _young blood_. This city expected his commitment, deviance, leadership, respect and diktats with no happy medium to level the extremes. Perhaps that was why anti-Camarilla captains did not tend to live long in California – not anymore – and his life was the gory mark of senior status. Sieges made him a veteran more than scars, war badges or victories; Lord knew they had few enough of those since San Fran went up in a fucking blaze. It was no goddamn wonder Jack wouldn't pick up the Free-State's reins himself. Rebel idolhood was a death warrant with a crown made of iron and bone. You could not take it off once you put it on; spikes sunk, shackling title to skull, a painful partnership. _Baron_ drank your blood. If the role strain didn't kill you, the corporate flunkies sure as hell would. They didn't have any other choice. Only way to get that crown off was to shoot the head that wore it.

Nines could not tell, sometimes, if he was an old Anarch or a young Kindred. But whatever you made of the Brujah's tenure, he _did_ know this situation was fucked long before his truck screeched to a short stop outside Brothers Salvage. The Baron's heart was jammed up somewhere in his throat, shoulders tight, teeth grinding. He appealed to Voerman because there was, frankly, no other option at this end-game point; shit, Isaac could barely be trusted any more than that psychotic sister, but trust didn't factor into his decisions right now. What factored was that Abrams' movie money proved useless with the Prince's baby betrayed and all these dead soldiers. What factored was no den, no hot-blooded kids to soak and fire bullets, no scapegoats left to send to slaughter. One Cam whore lying ashed in her apartment. One Landa warehouse with electricity flashed out and cabinets torn apart. LaCroix Foundation folders sprawling on the passenger seat, a jumbled mess of raw data, numbers that didn't compute for him. Nos cameras bugging half the goddamn state as it was, a man could barely breathe around here without someone picking up his tracks… someone would know. Someone was probably already meting out what it meant.

Half Damsel's jaw blowing off and hitting that fucking motel wall factored in pretty strong, too.

"_You keep your priorities in mind when you can shout this loud, kid. You got to see beyond tomorrow. You stop getting yourself shot in these fucking block raids – you live to fight another day,"_ MacNeil said, the first and only time Rodriguez spoke to him, right before LA-of-Then imploded again. He was only a little better than newbie himself in the 60s, and didn't know what to make of that pragmatic advice. Now? Decade or two later, when their last icon disappeared, he'd been one among few who could even consider filling those shoes: Brujah, semi-established, Presence-focused, no dependants, and a stone's throw older than greenhorn. But he'd learned the game rules a long time before that die was cast.

Because before that there was Chelle, another chopper squad riddled into mincemeat, shrugging and patting her newest ghoul on the back as he heaved behind a dumpster. _"You got to buck up and shake this thing off, doll-face. We lost a few good boys tonight, and it's a crying shame – but that's just the price of the game. Hell, I even liked Chester. But minute-men come easy. Trust me on that one. Blows my fuckin' mind, really,"_ she'd noted, rubbing his sore ribcage, dealing him a thump to the spine that made the retching worse. Tommy laughed his ass off from the car. There was a splatter of hot blood on hood paint that must've been Lou's; it steamed across moonlight blue, life on fire, bad smoke. _"Replaceable commodity. You could send an army into a grinder and still keep more soldiers coming, long as you act like you're worth dyin' for. All you gotta' do is act it. Here, honey – take this hankie. Wipe your mouth. You just keep that smile on your face and you'll always have the boys to back it up." _

Christie, Deacon, and all the San Fran discontents they could stir up bussing to Los Angeles in hours – among Kindred or kine, Rochelle was right. Dark hair and pretty teeth were all you needed. The rules applied.

It was gloomy in the sewers beneath Santa Monica, and _Christ_, it stank. Nines had squealed his truck to a halt outside that silo, then rounded it with pistols clanking at his hips and smuggled evidence pinned under one arm. A smoky night waited outside. Oil and antifreeze made the air above Brothers Salvage sting; automotive rot looked foul, broken windshields glinting threats beyond the chain link fences Rodriguez hopped over. He took them at a jog, wanting to run but too nervous to admit this was an emergency. Not yet. Flat-faced junkyard dogs were panting and barking beyond the metal fence next door. He barely wasted the time to glance around. If Therese Voerman had been waiting outside that wrecking field with a taser, a gas can and a lighter, the Anarch wouldn't have seen her until his backbone racked and his clothes caught fire. _'Bad death. Real bad death.'_

He found the access gate easily enough: a cement hump forking out of dry gravel, surrounded by pipes and water gauges, doorway barred shut. His pulse surged when both hands fixed themselves around the beams. Nines could've hauled this flimsy thing off its hinges easy enough, but locked doors to drop-off zones were always bad signs. It was unlocked. Jeanette had come through.

He pushed it open, paint crumbling off in his palms, and descended at a fast clip.

Something was down here with him. He knew it intuitively – before any splashes, foot shuffles or glistening eyes in the aqueducts.

Beyond the bonfire of a hundred plans unraveling, one thing was clear: that fatcat Toreador could not buy Rodriguez's ass out of jeopardy this time. The only thing that might preserve him was an army of hackers, and Hollywood couldn't provide that – not since their Nosferatu contacts had run underground, rat-sucking cowards. Nines did not trust Bertram Tung, who'd been known to serve Camarilla clients before (even, some said, against his clan's wishes). But there were no other options now. He would have to do.

The only other liaison left to approach might've been… London, but _shit_. London was probably on an express ticket to execution right about now.

Impromptu meetings in Nocturne Theatre could mean a shipload of unfortunate things, Nines knew. But the first dot on LaCroix's schedule was probably watching a sword hit the base of Woeburne's neck. And if she went out screaming treachery – using his name as a curse – well. Rodriguez's mug would be the next to fly.

_Not like there was anyone left ahead of him._

Time to work fast.

London had every right to try and take him down, poor bitch; she was born into a lineage that doomed her from the start. He didn't deny a hand in the girl's downfall – but honestly, sorry as it might've been, Nines flipped open her passport photo a year ago and saw Serena Woeburne as one of two categories: a possibility, or an inconvenience. He had not expected her to become so much of both. She could've been dust five or six times by now, the Brujah mused – had counted on, actually – and yet it was that Ventrue's resilience that did her in like this. London bounced back. You chuck her at a wall, and she'd find some way to ricochet. You break her face a few times, the obstinate office cadet would pick up her teeth and paste them back in. You grinned at her and she scowled. You _scowled_ at her and she scowled. Adaptability and elasticity – they were unusual qualities in a Prince's personal terrier, but it was one that made her interesting to him. Good musketeer or a slippery eel depending on who you were and when. Any way you sliced it, that woman's death was an inevitability; might as well serve Free-State causes, he figured, rather than her son-of-a-bitch Sire's schemes. Rodriguez thought this kid deserved a better death than being blotted off LaCroix's employee charter one day because she outlived her usefulness.

Serena would not have seen his double-cross as a "better death" – not in any way, shape or form – and shit, maybe Woeburne wasn't wrong. The excuse didn't taste right. Maybe this was only justification for another body shoved between Nines and the firing squad… a process that was always grisly, but did get easier. Clan passion smoothed cold as your age increased and your internal Humanity waned away. You stop wondering if things could have been different. You start to forget names and faces – Childer who died because they were too young to serve the Movement any other way than as a meat shield. Determination, martyr stares, naïve notions of brotherhood and enthusiastic war cries – they all began to look the same. Usually they jumped, though. It was still difficult to push. It was harder to be all right with _live-to-fight-another-day_ when your casualties shoved back and burned up hating you instead of bearing it for love of the freedoms you spun for them. London never wanted anything to do with his strenuous liberty line. Nines had to wonder if she would go out begging or as stiff-lipped and resentful as the Ventrue had always been before. Nines thought maybe he would remember London's face a little longer than the norm.

And there was that nasty feeling that this was, in fact, what LaCroix had intended for her all along: death by Anarch, another peg cast out to fuel the scorn against them.

Didn't matter now.

His immediate plans were simple: get this information sorted out, then high-tail it to Hollywood, where flamboyant Toreador debauchery made it possible for a lone Brujah to hide. Isaac could not bail Nines Rodriguez – but he could protect him. At the very least, he could offer a dark basement that downtown's exiled Baron would transform into a military bunker. And then came the business of repopulating Los Angeles's empty Anarch nest. Nicky Shih – gross pantywaist fuck – was a sympathizer. Had a bit of a Free-State crush, if you were to ask their chief. Then there was that pup Jon Sanders – two-faced fast-talker, used to bully Velvet's door – who thought he'd quit collecting cover charges and slum around with the real roughnecks for a change. Wonderful. Nines might just cut the latter a flattering Party nickname and contact the former to see what sort of recruiting motivated Cam Poseurs could do on the sly. Christie would make a good sergeant. Deacon's age made him their fall guy; he'd have the dangerous job of picking promising soldiers out of human gangs and 'enlisting' them. Hard times made for a hard draft.

The water was icy down here – that surprised him. It reeked of fish and sulfur and beach salt, aqueduct runoff from the shore, algae scumming up concrete walls. Thick pipes and electrical cords, cased in rubber, wrapped around every ceiling corner. Rats skittered. Wouldn't shock him to hop off this nice sidewalk and land on a motherfucking alligator; Rodriguez stuck to the paved walkway, extremely aware of each handgun resting snugly against his jeans. Gushing H20 muffled sound, strained every noise through a filter. Massive purifiers churned; massive cylinders, tubing and bacteria tanks turned rainwater into liquid fit for kitchen sinks. Nines pressed quickly in the direction Jeanette had pointed him. His boot soles squeaked against damp cement. A sodden raccoon huddled in one corner, gnawing on what looked to be something's fleshy toe, glaring coolly at the intruder. It chattered. Cat bones littered the flood valves, stored for future meals.

It was pretty fucking difficult to have good feelings about slogging through city sewers with a motherlode of Ventrue blackmail stuffed under one arm, he imagined… but _shit_.

Tung's "office" – if you could call this claustrophobic, spider-eaten, sack-of-dirt chamber that – was almost neon green for all the LED lights and weed growth sutured to its bricks. Mold threatened to overwhelm. The disgusted Brujah had to cover his mouth with a sleeve. Vegetation mixed with animal decay, all chased by this strange cinderblock smell… it was like someone grabbed an electric fence with one hand while clutching peat moss in the other. Would've made him gag, had he still operated on fresh oxygen. At least the chances of someone else willingly poking around down here – say, one of those jackass "urban spelunkers" who occasionally stumbled upon Kindred business – were next to nil. Landa's documents might just live out the night.

He spotted Bertram's wall cabinet, oddly clean in all this miscellaneous funk, and quickly shoved the folders in. The compartment was full of dust and shut with a creak. Nines didn't like just walking away; he wedged a stray stick through the handles, just to make sure rusted hinges stayed shut.

It was not relief the Anarch felt. He felt disquiet. Something was down here, hulking behind him, an ominous weight that Rodriguez sensed but couldn't see.

Nines's labyrinth has a minotaur.

And that meeting hadn't been about London, at all.

The Brujah heard LaCroix's Sheriff before he saw him and leapt backwards, pawing air for momentum, breath and sense and heart and fortitude all ripped from his mouth in a strangled shout. It is something like a shout, at any rate. Nines screams, eyes wide, their horrible gunmetal blue. He cannot process it. His body reacts. There is a massive clawed fist scratching through this darkness, grabbing for the Anarch's face, fingers clenching so close that Rodriguez can feel the cold breeze of _missing_ against his short beard. He falls away from them. Potence is thwanging up both arms, knotting the muscles; when the man hits concrete, he barely notices. He lands on an elbow and rolls, jacket rippling, a colossal stomp splintering the ground where his chest had just been.

He should have ditched that fucking truck.

Nines Rodriguez is not everything his reputation promises. Even Barons who rely on image and words do not think about the aftermath of a fight stuck in the middle of one. There is no time to mull over political consequences or order that sent out a titan. Truthfully, Rodriguez doesn't fully realize the creature sent to destroy him; he cannot peer into that glazed red squint, cringe at the beast's leathery façade, imagine how badly those yellowed thresher teeth will hurt when they rip through a calf or deltoid. He refuses to mark how it doubles him in size – more than that, probably, because he's never been this close before – or how this monster is elephantine, hide thicker than most bullets will bury. He does not focus on that ridiculous ritual blade, hilt forking over one shoulder, a behemoth weapon that should be impossible to wield. He'd rather not note that the shoulder itself looks more like granite blocks than tissue. He does not wonder what Disciplines a freak-of-fucking nature like LaCroix's gorilla might hurl. He does not even ponder the possibility that Jeanette Voerman sent him waltzing into a deathtrap. Not right now.

Sometimes Kindred have greater concerns than playing Jyhad.

He does, however, think very intently about surviving. He certainly thinks about running – as the Brujah scrambles up, tearing for the doorway, throwing himself forward in a wolf-lunge. Brutal nails slash through the back of his shirt, seeking skin. _Rip-!_ They don't get it yet. Celerity thrums from Nines's ankle-to-knee-to-hip, tickling his shinbones. He slams the heavy door behind him as an afterthought, and as the Anarch runs, it blows off those squeaky hinges – _passes him_. That thing was solid iron. It must have weighed two-hundred pounds. It flies over his head like a bandage torn off and tossed away.

Excuse him, please, but holy _fuck_.

When the tunnel turns sharp ahead, his speed puts him airborne with little effort, boot soles planting themselves firmly on the brick siding. And now it's _one_, _two_, _five, fifteen_ – _thirty-five _– steps down the warren wall, unhindered by water or sludge. Kicking off horizontal picks up the Brujah's momentum considerably. When he comes leaping back down, up to his knees in a splash, Nines moves for the first weapon at hand; he tears Eagle One from its holster and twists an arm back, emptying every round instantly. He does not stop running.

Beyond the adrenaline, gunfire and howling tubes, he can still hear that ogre rumbling for him. Maybe the bullets hit. Who the fuck can tell? It is only a dreaded dark shape stampeding down the channel behind him, loping, nebulous, a thunderstorm in animal form. He wants to yell again, but fear has jammed his throat up sharp.

With one hand, Nines pulls out and fires an extra Browning he'd tucked away last night. The other rips a clip from his belt, pins it on his thigh, and bounces the depleted handgun full. He drops the now exhausted spare. _'Damsel's,' _occurs to him with a start, as it flips grip-over-muzzle then vanishes in a silvery splash. He pulls Eagle Two from his coat and hefts both twins – a familiar, confident weight. Then he spins around, roars – because what the fuck does he have to lose at this point? – and unloads seventeen FMJ rounds where he imagines that bastard's head to be. The nine-millimeters have been useless against this tank, little more than bee-bites; he does not bother with a third magazineful. The fifty might have hit. Something like blood and tallow flies though damp air. It's all moving too fast to tell.

There is an unforgettable yowl that comes echoing down this derelict tunnel. There is a series of bony sounds the human ear cannot define – a strange, otherworldly _shift_.

It has pounced before the Baron can be sure of what he sees.

These shadows have transmogrified; the impact comes so fast, it does not register. Limbs, chitin, pelt, cruor, _cold_. Concrete breaks behind his eardrums. It's like a thunderclap. There is rushing – Nines knows it cannot be blood.

He could have been struck by a train.

_What has happened?_ Ground knocked from beneath him, this wartime chief doesn't fully know; but suddenly it's not Sheriff Los Angeles Rodriguez contends with – gleaning metal, ceremonial sword or five-hundred-pound punch. Now, there is a great big motherfucking _bat_ over him – fur dripping, wings beating his eyes black, talons shredding the denim and flesh of his legs into streamers. It plows Nines flat. The Brujah is thrown backwards as though a steamroller slammed into him, a messy semi-flight carrying them both down the sewer; he is pinned down, and he is wounded. Gravely. Forelimbs pummel. Something snaps inside his torso. Three somethings, actually. His head plunges beneath the water, skull cracking as it smacks the cement, spoiled rain flooding his lungs. Everything tastes like dirt. He screams bubbles. His eyes are wide open. Claws are raking through his stomach muscles like butter. He sees up through the surface, a hundred – a thousand miles away in two feet of fetid ocean coast and spent storms – the black beast overhead. It is a devastating, tremendous blur of hide and enamel and keratin and death.

He could swear he's sinking but he can't be, it's fucking impossible – there's mortar at his back, a layer of titanium – and no more room to fall.

Clan stamina steels tissue fibers, but it does not help much against whatever this brute is. It feels like a half-ton of marauder is crushing him into the earth. White horror – frenzy pushing at his seams – bursts through the vampire's vision, narrowing his field of sight, murky beneath the stream. Nails are slipping deeper through his core, menacing the bindings there; they catch something that shatters pain within him. The chaos makes things insane and quiet all at once. He can't seem to force it away; Kindred strength drains quickly under panic, like wasting disease. Every blow glanced off, or missed, or came away with useless fists of hair. He thrashes. Skeleton and vestigial organs pop together. He thinks his chest is about to collapse.

Plan B: Nines pries his hands away from those talons, gathers a knuckleful of Potence, and _rips _five fingers through a waxy length of wing.

The membrane bleeds more than he thought it would. Droplets splatter every which way, wedged beneath his claws. Capillaries burst. An inhuman screech clangs through these conduits. The Anarch does not wait for retaliation; he crashes one knee into a soft square of bat underbelly, clawing for space. Another rip. He is holding delicate, pulpy strips of wing between digits that radiate blue. The creature flails, scrambling off him.

Nines breaks the surface, fangs stretching past his bottom lip – gasping, though he does not need to. Pupils have thinned to predator slits in nickel eyes. He thrusts his upper body out of the ditch and himself upright. They retreat from each other for a moment, recovering. Tiny abrasions gladly knit together, a credit to the undead condition, but it is not enough; this damage is supernatural, and has been done.

The vampire shakes. His guns are wet; he does not know how many ribs he's broken. Probably all of them – but one particularly troublesome floater is sticking into a lung. He wheezes red through nose and mouth. Small bite-marks sting all up and down his forearms. They are horribly painful, the burn of five dozen pins, each hole searing where that serrated mouth closed. It can't be felt right now. He gropes to hold his guts in, positive they have been exposed, surprised that the yawning slashes from sternum to naval already hurt this badly. No intestines poking through, somehow. But the lacerations are vicious and raw, dripping oil-black, tapping into the deep vessels – gouges that gash inches into him. This old Baron cannot tell where his blood ends and the Sheriff's begins, crimson plastered over both of them, mixing with water, soaked down to the bone. He can feel stickiness at the base of his neck. He isn't sure if it's mud or the insides of his head dribbling out.

Though he knows this will not work, Rodriguez jams a cartridge into his handgun and fires. The hammer releases a moist, impotent _snick_.

_Snick. Snick. Snicksnicksnick._

Shit.

Sheriff Los Angeles hisses at him – a whipped, limping warform with a broken wingspan. Bullet bits are pushing out of mending chiropteran muscle. Brown, slick hair quivers over gamey tendons. Blind, beady button-eyes glint deep in its face, like a child's toy. Long, tapering ears twitch – ears that Nines thinks about pulling off. His own blood coats that behemoth's paws. He's snapped the cartilage of its second wing-finger. Crumpled bones flap uselessly.

If Rodriguez can find a manhole, perhaps throwing himself into the city streets might save him. The Anarch is spattered in scarlet and obviously injured, with copper fluid leaking from his gums, ebbing through the spaces between his teeth. But he appears human – human enough. This giant can't follow him out there, and – let's be honest – it isn't as if he's too concerned violating the Masquerade might earn a Princely slap on the wrist. Fleeing is only a temporary solution, but this man's options are limited. And there is no guarantee a Camarilla sharpshooter won't claim a nice hunk of his brains the instant their target peeks out. Corporate sons-of-bitches and their long-arm executions.

Nines drops the clips from his weapons, spins them to dry out the inner workings, and snaps both back into their holsters.

He is as prepared for this as anyone can be.

There is a sawed-off strapped to the Brujah's back tonight, an extra protection that gouged deeply into his spine when the Nagloper swooped upon him. Its barrel pours water. Still, when Rodriguez hefts the gun, there is recognition in Sheriff LA's dull, circular eyes; sensitive lobes can hear him split it over a knee.

'_You want Vicissitude, you cracked-up Tzimisce bastard-child…?'_

Try this on for Fleshcraft.

Nines whirls the dampness out as best as Celerity allows him, pulls a bright green slug from his pocket, slams it down the barrel and fires.

The result is not a _snick_ this time.

Buckshot erupts.

Pieces of it ricochet and bite the Anarch at this close range, blowing chunks of meat off that fucking bat-beast, fur puffing into midair like a Saturday morning cartoon. Blood sprays. Rodriguez learned something about the havoc well-applied phosphorus can wreak from their little Leopold episode on Santa Monica Pier; holes in his gut still oozing, he'd beelined to Gabe's specialty shop and ordered as many Frag-12 rounds as the ghoul could smuggle. Only way _that_ sort of pain would ever happen around Nines again was if he dealt the shot. Explosive ordinance at short-range isn't a conservative idea, naturally – if the Brujah wasn't drenched, he'dve probably caught fire – but this risk has one hell of an effect. The sound itself is impressive, dinging down ramshackle wardens, making rodents scurry everywhere within a mile. Los Angeles's ex-chief can remember those bygone days when he used to cart a grenade around, for threats as much as practical use; a slug is much subtler. Until it goes off, anyway.

He does not wait to survey the damage. It screams. That's enough for him. The blast-force kicks the shooter backwards, and satisfied with that blood-curdling shriek, Nines turns tail and runs.

He hasn't escaped the blow-out one-hundred-percent clean. Embers have singed down the front of his jacket. Bits of smoldered flesh cling to it, charcoal grey – the fuck knows whose at this point? His shoulder does seem to be smoking, Rodriguez notes, tearing around another bend and swatting it out. Sidewalk squares fly under his footsteps. LaCroix's Sheriff is lagging on the rebound… considering an alternate attack-style, maybe, now that his adversary's equipped with heavy ordinance? He hasn't packed any extra hot rounds; nevertheless, like that lone grenade, sometimes illusion is more powerful than reality. Nines is nevertheless a little upset he didn't stuff a few more Frag-12s in his coat tonight. But he's not telling. Another five frantic yards, and slimy corridors reveal a boon, anyway: one large, square, concrete hurtle jutting out from the wall.

The Anarch takes cover behind this meter outcropping, thankful for the slab of cool concrete at his back, smearing blood all up and down his makeshift trench. Trembling hands load the Mossberg with punishing steel. Valves whir and buzz overhead. It's getting hard to think straight, temples pounding, energy reserves burned low. He wonders if this was the last thing London saw before she died – if the Prince sicced his Frankenstein on his Childe, if he even waited until they could get her up on that stage. How many people have died like they were? You couldn't know; nor could Nines know if these questions were valid, if they described the state of their world. The Brujah does know he will not be able to sustain Celerity much longer. He will not survive if it catches him again; that is a certain, terrible thing. Channeling speed alongside other Disciplines – trying to maintain them all – has worn him out, spreading powers slight and stringy. Rodriguez notes the way his kidneys are still cozy inside him and decides that it will be the last to go.

Be nice if that raccoon wandered by right about now, but sometimes you just can't win.

There are no footsteps scurrying down the aqueduct after him. There are no wing-beats. Quiet disturbs Nines far more than steam and sloshing water; he can hear the sound of his pulse, nerves whacking down his jaw. It's powerfully sore. He thinks he dislocated it somewhere back there. He does not look much like Nines anymore, to be honest, Humanity corroded away with Final Death nudging his fight-or-flight. Blood drips from distended canines and nose and bottom lip and what seems to be the Brujah's left ear. It leaks from sable hair in diluted rivulets; he's not certain where the cut is. His arms are shaking too badly to find a mark. That last shot must've smarted like hell, but the Sheriff is alive, a circling shark; Rodriguez is absolutely sure of this. The next assault will end him, most likely. He is not galloping out with blazing pistols like a moron. No god damned way. Let that mangy motherfucker come hurtling up here.

He chambers the shotgun and spits.

"Here, kitty-kitty," Nines growls, a threat misting blood through his teeth.

There is an answering howl.

Tunnels grumble. Muck-stained waves crash forward. The marauder's charge is a terrifying, hairy blur. And – roundabout the time he has committed himself to ramming his silver vambrace as far down that demon's gullet as possible, watching the arm wrenched from its socket, taking a last bitter victory by rending LaCroix's goon's throat apart from the inside – Nines Rodriguez gets a better idea.

He hefts the Mossberg and stands up. He aims at the ceiling.

There is a large water main welded to the side of this passageway. It is fat, thick, bronze, and eaten pale green by rust. Industrial screws hold the cylinder segments together, aged and melted into their foundations. This artery, he guesses, supplies an entire street's faucets and then some; a rupture would not flood the sewer, but it would burst, and do so until sanitation teams rushed down to caulk the overworn metal shut. Alone, it is mundane – a bit of rigging in a maze of similar tubes. There's nothing spectacular here.

Above it – at what would normally be a safe distance, Nines imagines – runs a rubber-coated band of wire, the source of these safety lights and underground generators. It is water-proof and completely dry. Iron bars line the exterior, keeping every inch in place; after all, crossing routes could be disastrous. The voltage is not particularly high, but there are always dangers in urban planning… they range from electrical fire to smoldering insulation, toxic gas, and not insignificant shock.

Two shots are all he has time for, a Nagloper warform careening forward with claws extended, but those two shots are all the Anarch really needed.

One slams into the pipe, splinters it; frigid, punitive jets surge. It is brutal in temperature. It freezes skin that's already dead.

The next, though – and this is the important one – sails north, breaks apart, and brings a live, snakelike power cable swinging at that copper main.

The water isn't freezing anymore.

A feather-light touch of cord superheats the tubes in a heartbeat. Metal boils, crackles, glows a ferocious, bitter orange. Rust sears off. Steam instantly bloats the humid air. The watercourse chugging inside might as well have turned to lava.

Sheriff Los Angeles is roundabout under the falls when this happens.

It is hard to say if the scream is louder than the torrent of scalding H20.

Nines could've choked at the smell: a putrid, chemical scent like scorched leather, charred fur, roasted proteins and smelted marrow. Smoke, black and animal, rose. Hot water continued to glug from dented pipelines, and he darted around it, avoiding burns by a wide-berth. The Sheriff lay beyond. He had been merciless, emotionless and rampaging all at once – wrapped in a mammal's clothing only a moment ago. Now he was a baked, crusted shell. Scabs bubbled upon the creature's back. Its legs were curled and crisped, welts covering every naked patch. Follicles had been replaced by barren pores. He whimpered pitiably – or maybe it was just the wheeze of splitting, overheated meat. The bat had no nose left… only a white, sterile, pagan point of skull.

Nines reloaded the shotgun, rammed it into the blackness of that open, wagging mouth, and fired. _Bang. Chthuk-thuk. Bang._

He empties the barrel – four shots in total. He sees the mess, but it does not register. Not until the marauder's head is splinters and then pulp and then fine, sifting ash that dissolves in this lukewarm sewage and disappears.

He drops the Mossberg, thinks about puking, and hears Bertram Tung's voice hoot out behind him. Nines cannot quite make out his face, that skeletal caricature of humanness; his vision blurs and swirls and throbs bright-to-black with pulse beats. Everything is twanging and spinning in strange ways. There seems to be a tilt to this floor; his knees won't line up right. And, even though the man stares straight – deadly, desperately straight; eyes blue through the blood running through them – none of these shapes will stay still. But he can trace the distorted silhouette. He can feel footsteps that scrape. And he can hear, albeit dully, that voice. "_Holy shit,"_ it says._ "See something new every day."_

"_Got your number, Rodriguez," _it says.

"_You are fucked," _it says.

Nines slogs out of the water, gestures wordlessly down the black tunnel behind him, and then he does puke. He leans forward the moment Tung turns around, blackened crisp of corpse behind him, shirt sopping with rainfall and steam, and he spits out whatever is left in his stomach. It's almost dry heaves. It feels like death and cracked bones.

The water turns a dark shade of red.

**III.**

There is dissent in downtown Los Angeles tonight.

She did her best to control it, the Ventrue manager standing stark center stage. Her chin was set stiff and respectable, posture appropriate for a Kindred much older than she. The suit upon her racked shoulders was smart, impeccable black. An authoritative cough attempted to silence the rumor mill. It is not a successful attempt, of course; wizened drones are never likely to heed commands from young, impatient bees. Perhaps with another thirty years, she would have commanded more esteem – or, perhaps, the name LaCroix was enough. It does not much matter for their purposes here this evening.

Respect is no part of what happens in Los Angeles tonight.

"Please. I understand you have questions. I don't have all the answers. And I know that this news comes at an uneasy time," Seneschal Woeburne pressed, standing straight-backed before Nocturne Theatre's muttering court, her pale hands gripping the podium as though it might escape. "But that is the way of it. Know that Mr. LaCroix appreciates your efforts in helping us make this city a safe Domain. Know that I, personally, appreciate your response to his call. And above all, you should know your Prince promises that, whatever happens, he will see justice done."

They stared at her.

"I will notify you of any future developments. Until then, consider this Hunt official. Thank you," Ms. Woeburne said, bowed her head, and left the floor with few explanations and that numb expression walled-off by dark hair.

The crowd was a haze of murmurs and burrs.

The Seneschal stepped backwards, whitewashed by these lights, and felt as though she could tell them nothing at all.


	72. Rotten in Denmark

**Rotten in Denmark**

Nines Rodriguez needed somewhere to hide.

Normally, this would not be such a distressing problem. A contested Baron always keeps his list of contacts: sympathizers, powerful lip-service Anarchs, neutral parties, resentful Camarilla pawns who slipped Jacksons to the Cause when their bosses' backs were turned. They were not friends, but bodies to fuel revolt from sideline seats. When the spotlight began to sear and cook, there were corners of Los Angeles to slink off into – places were a dogged figurehead could recuperate in relative safety. The homeowners of these temporary safe-houses varied; they ranged from friend-desperate neonates who didn't know any better to conniving Kindred with sights set on Primogen status. Usually they were enough. This was not _usually_. Tonight, most of the Brujah's minor lifelines were null and void – either too connected or too unknown to offer real shelter from a Hunt. Tonight was different. What he needed tonight was an island.

Nines ran through his options from behind the windshield of a speeding truck, few though they were.

He could not set foot downtown again – not since Prince LaCroix announced what was, apparently, open season on his ass. The weapon stores still tucked away in their old den, blood reserves, comprehensive sewer system maps, useful telephone numbers… they weren't worth thinking about. Shit, it was unlikely _The Last Round_ still stood; soon as its residents ducked-and-covered, some Camarilla stooges had probably bussed over to strip the place down to bare rafters. Chewing on it only made him angry, though. Nines did not have time to be angry tonight.

Hollywood had been the original plan, and Rodriguez still intended on burrowing there once the calamity settled down. Isaac did not keep his Domain on the tightest of leashes, however, and this fact concerned a fugitive vampire. That neighborhood would be swarming with vampires who hunted his blood; much as he could offer dark places to hide, Abrams could not declare warfare on the Camarilla's justice troopers. They'd smoke him out like a candlestick in a straw house – devour old Free-State territory from within, weevils on fresh wood. Nines did not want to fight again. His face bled, muscle tissue knitting back together fiber-by-fiber, pain refusing to ebb away. Another battle would bring very bleak odds. He would only appeal to the Baron if there were no alternatives left.

Rodriguez glanced at the CD-case glistening on his dashboard – twenty minutes worth of Bertram Tung's handiwork. Jeanette had not lied about that.

He fidgeted against upholstery, fingers tightly gripping the wheel. Nines had immediately kicked off his truck's plates after limping from those sewers, but sitting here – blood drying blacker than its natural color into battered denim and leather – still felt like death. He longed painfully to abandon this vehicle, but it was too useful a tool for that. Instead, the Anarch hoped to park it somewhere off-putting – perhaps out front of a rival's doorstep? – possibly lead some would-be vigilantes astray. Even better, if he could find some way to swap this can with an unsuspecting kine, the decoy might bait a trail outside Los Angeles. Luring LaCroix's hordes away would be ideal. For now, his boot pressed heavily into the accelerator. Refraining from stunts and restraining the speedometer were wise moves; Rodriguez opted for blending strategies as opposed to drag-racing. But it was difficult not flooring pedal-to-metal and roaring down I-10. For now, he had to keep calm.

Easier said than done, Nines thought bitterly, feeling disturbingly Londonlike as he bit into his bruised bottom lip.

Baron LA was calmer now than he had been, at least, the result of exhaustion more so than conscious planning. When his ears had stopped ringing and Rodriguez remembered how to walk straight, he had climbed out of that sewer, limped to his parked car, and driven directly to Gabe Milam's. It was muscle memory – a habit trained by three years' investment of ammunition, defeatism and hate. The grizzled ghoul with a blank slot for his eye could tell something was wrong. You could see a condemned man in the way Nines, usually laidback and half-smiles, had pushed through that door with five commands already primed. You could determine fright when the Brujah curtly ordered some lick he didn't even know to load up his own delivery truck with ordinance – _everything that'll fit_ – and drop all of it off the park district underpass to Griffith Park. You could smell deadlines in the green ink scent of that satchel he threw onto Gabe's desk when the dealer began to protest _this was none of his business_, zippers stuffed with bills, maybe every dollar he had. You could read demise in how he'd slumped, back pressing too many ammo crates into his pickup's flatbed; how he'd banged a fist against the fender, pointless frustration; how the bloodstains spread and sunk his face into despair. And you could certainly hear it in that bark – that way his eyes glinted feral, predator and not person – to get back, stay away, don't ask.

No, Nines hadn't been very calm when he'd broke all his insurance on a pile of explosives and guns.

"Shih," he'd coughed into his cellular phone, panting outside Milam's with the weight of holding weapons in, unable to feel his ribs. The line went dead immediately.

Expected. Not encouraging.

Being back on the move again made Baron Angeltown feel a little more secure. He could hear bullets cartons scrape behind him – counted on more waiting at the foot of that mountain road. Even short-term contingencies were better than blind running. There was a metal taste in his mouth and fog of pain everywhere else, but the shock that sparked fear had since settled into taut, lethal focus. He could not go to pieces in Los Angeles tonight. He had to figure it out.

Santa Monica could still fit the bill. Voerman had warned him off her turf earlier, sharing Therese's suspicions, but shoving a shotgun down a Sheriff's throat helped to put some perspective on things. Prince-Junior did not scare him anymore, if she ever had. Shit, the Brujah had only just sped away from that burb, adrenaline pushing him on before he'd stopped to mull over where else there was to go. Jeanette was not exactly low-key, but she might know a few shadowy nooks. And it went without saying the girl kept a list of clients, sometimes-partners, collaborators and casual allies longer than their Pier. She also had motivation to help him; then again, Rodriguez wasn't sure she had the guts for it. Anarchs did not generally make many demands of their friends apart from open borders and allegiance, but warfare changed the rules of engagement. Violating Prince LaCroix's Blood Hunt was not the most mundane favor to ask.

Finally, there was Griffith Park – because there was always Griffith Park, a funereal name nestled high above LA – but this outlaw was not ready for his last stand just yet. They knew why the stockpile existed. They knew full well what would one day occur here, hunkered in this dank basement – shells scattering, a fuse running short behind them – even as Damsel and Skelter stacked astrolite canisters beneath the observatory building, bickering away. _We don't come back from there. _The finality of C4 bundles and M16s was apparent. But Nines did not know if he would ever really be prepared to sink himself down and blast live rounds straight into martyrdom. And he had always thought there would be a small army bleeding behind him.

Nines Rodriguez needed somewhere to hide, and options were limited.

He swiped the phone off his passenger seat, knocking aside a drained plastic blood pouch, and wedged it under one ear.

"Stay on the line. Look, I'm sorry for calling again," the Anarch preambled, tone more sedate than it had been before. This could've been a product of his toxic predicament; alternately, it might have had something to do with how claws drew slapdash crosses across Rodriguez's torso. "But you were right. Bertram came through. He got me what I wanted, and I need your help now."

The voice that answered was undoubtedly Voerman's, but tonight's politics rent it into something hard to recognize. Anxiety tightened that lisp, loose vowels tempered by suspicion and surprise. Nothing purred about Santa Monica's aspiring queen bee at present. It had been two hours since they last spoke, perhaps – plus thirty minutes at most – yet that short interval hammered a crack in Jeanette's danger fetish easy as crab shells. Nines heard this. To him, a libertine's misgivings were more frightening than slugs punching through the metal siding of his door. Their damage was long-term. _"You're still around!"_ she exclaimed, no attempt to douse the surprise. Yes, straightforwardness from whores and vampires was an incredibly scary thing. _"Not that I doubted your street-fighting, sweetie, but _hell_! I didn't think you'd be hanging here in Cali – or, you know, the realm of us living fools – for another chat…" _There was a drop in the woman's pitch as astonishment became cautionary and grave. _"You've, um… been enlightened as to your current legal pickle, right, honey?"_

"Like you wouldn't believe," the Baron chuffed. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror – black hair stiff and crusted with red, one silver eye swollen purple, skin pale. Knees had been shredded bloodily out of his pants. There were bat toothmarks puncturing both sleeves of his coat; though the flesh beneath healed, these holes remained. The Anarch winced. He looked like a dying thing.

"_Wull'… this is just a great big tragedy, it is. I don't know what more you think I can do for you, babe. I am only one little girl, after all. Bertram says he's never setting foot near you again after tonight; whatever the hell you did to spook him off, I can't say, but things got hairy here on our beachfront paradise real quick after we talked. I'm sticking my hand on the hotplate just by picking up this phone. You're not exactly everyone's favorite Brujah at the moment, Ninesy."_

"No shit," Nines barked, and the madness of it all – of this fox run through Los Angeles; the cat's cradle that was one year's relationship with her Seneschal; tactics spun with this power-starved jackal princess, as though they were guerilla generals, comrades-in-resistance – made him choke into a laugh. Sober, grueling humor. These were absurd nights. "There is no time to turn this into a game. I need you to do something for me. You can stay where you are. But I have to get underground within the next hour – at the absolute fucking latest – or I have a strong feeling neither one of us will worry about the Prince any longer." A crank of the wheel wrapped his car onto Main Street; among Kindred, public thoroughfares were far safer than desolate alleyways. "I am carrying a very sensitive package."

There was hesitation over the line; it clenched Rodriguez's gut. What felt like anger at the Voermans still tasted like fear to him, though: a cold, sour pang. His back teeth began to grind.

"_How sensitive are we talking about here, killer?"_

"The kind of sensitive that will blow that tower sky-high – _if_ I can hold onto it." (A big "if." One that would be cut to half-size with a few soldiers and a dark, decent den, though.) "I can't talk about it over the phone. Find somewhere safe for me, and I'll let you in." Second part of this excuse was a lie, necessary and unremorseful. He'd make something interesting up if the girl bit.

An unfortunate pause.

"_I can't, Ninesy,"_ she sighed, a dramatic, sob-story puff. _"I just can't."_

"Yes, Jeanette. You _can_," the Brujah insisted. He was in no mood to parry-and-switch. Tung's disk rattled as his truck blew through a stoplight, horns spitting their irritation behind him. An empty casing rolled about beneath the seats. "And you _will_."

There was irritation in her aggressive titter. It revealed the stresses that Voerman didn't. _"I don't think you're hearing me, dearest. Because you aren't being a very good listener. You can't come to Santa Monica again – not any time soon. Your type's not welcome here anymore."_

"I know you aren't turning your back on me, darlin.' I _know_ you are not backing out of our arrangement at the eleventh hour. Because I have been nothing but straight in my dealings with you," Rodriguez snarled. His fingers began to sink hard into the wheel covering, rings denting deep, knuckles still swollen around them. "And you should realize, this late in the scheme of things, that my fall means the Free-State folds. And that means that _you_ fold, Jeanette. But hell with that, I see. You're not concerned. If you think you can dig yourself out of this shit-hole alone, be my fucking guest. Give it your best shot. Bet your sister will torch you dead before LaCroix's goons hit me."

Maybe it intimidated her; maybe that psychotic bitch was speaking truth. Either way, the Anarch's demands were not met. He drove fast to nowhere. _"I hope you're not implying I'm getting off on seeing you squirm, Ninesy!"_ Junior cried, theatrical, sounding offended._ "Breaks my heart to see what's happened to you. And here you go threatening me! My tarnished soul can't take your mind-games." _

"This is not an act. If you don't stop screwing around," the Anarch chomped out, hackles flaring, "I will see to it that you-"

"_What, sunrise? End up like Joelle Lefevre?"_

The old Baron fell silent.

"_You always do assume the worst in people, don't you? Believe me when I say it's not that I don't want to help you. I don't care if you DID destroy her, sweetness. She was probably a haughty bitch, just like the rest of them."_ There was a harrumph, followed by a darker frown._ "But I am more than a little pressed this fine eve, myself."_

"Voerman. Jeanette. What could you _possibly_ be handling worse-off than-"

In that instant, her baits and snags dropped into crisis-mode. _"It's Therese – she's acting like real nutter-butter. And when I say that,"_ the woman continued, nose wrinkling, throat growing spiteful and thick, full of hatred and fright in equal measures. _"I mean Sissy's raving crazy since that meeting ended, even by her standards. You want to know where the hell I am, bad boy? I am locked in my own fucking bathroom. She came storming in here maybe twenty minutes ago, screaming some awful nonsense, railing on and on about God-Only-Knows. Broke my mirror! Turned it right over! I'm afraid to peek out. For all I know, my poor city's crawling with Camarilla gophers."_ There was silence for a moment, stifled breathing across the telephone. She pressed a hand over it, sitting sullenly in cold porcelain, laptop on crunched knees in an empty bathtub. He could not see that half the Malkavian's fair hair had been ripped down, gnarled; her own bracelet prints were whipped into a soft cheek. He could not see her dejected state of dress: shirt straps ripped; shoe lost; skirt splashed with ink, glasses of B-positive, whatever had been lying around Therese's office space. He could hear the seeds of underlying panic. _"I am not playing games with you, Nines Rodriguez,"_ came that whisper, about as serious as he'd ever imagined from her._ "Things are happening fast. I don't know what went down at Venture after the assembly ended. But it scares the bejeezus out of me. Had Bertie flash all my tech. Burned my diary up, even. _She_ said she'd burn me in my sheets if I left home tonight!" _These confessions were too fast; they overflowed into another awkward, muffled break. She does not ask for a rescue. She knows better than that. Still, it was only a weak layer of sugar that coated the seriousness of her crux: _"I think she suspects something's up between us, honey-bee. And that could make things very, very bad for me."_

Very bad for a multitude of LA vampires, Rodriguez knew – but worst for him, Jeanette, and little old London.

This was really the only reaction that fit: "_Fuck-!_" He slammed a palm onto the wheel. "How the fuck did she find out? Who the fuck would have known about this?"

"_Like I said, sweet thing, I don't know. It's like she was anticipating it – grew eyes in the back of her head, or something. Or in all the streetlights."_

Nines rumbled, because it can't be anyone else; it _has_ to be "Woeburne."

Her duplicity – as a Ventrue and as an integral part of Rodriguez's Santa Monica schemes – was not a shock. The Anarch worried quite a lot about her – that she might reveal him under her Prince's pressure. He had assumed, however, that their partnership in this affair would prevent Serena from over-sharing; camera locations, records, and exchanges between them were more than sufficient to sign that agent's death warrant. This was why he had prepared before meeting with her. This was why he had taken measures to hook LaCroix's Childe into their roster, were anything to spoil between them at a later date (almost inevitable). Woeburne was a snake and he knew so going in; you don't invite snakes into your home without packing shotguns and medicine, because sure as they've got fangs, they are going to bite you. It's only a matter of time and how fast you move. He wasn't sure how she managed to implicate him while covering her tracks – wasn't even sure if the Seneschal had, in fact, succeeded in this – because perhaps that woman was sitting somewhere in a dank Camarilla cell right now. Did she hate him enough to throw her life away? It didn't sound like London. But if she had trotted over to Nocturne Theatre, called for his death and then turned video into Therese Voerman's hands…

He had not counted on the Nosferatu – or that Serena Woeburne expanded her circles to include one or two of them since shaking Nines Rodriguez's hand.

He snatched the CD; jiggled case-and-all into an envelope, wedged into a corner of dashboard compartment. It is only a piece of plastic, dangerously brittle… but even will a full trunk, this is the last real bullet he has.

"_It Girl LaCroix announced the Blood Hunt on you," _Jeanette informed him, as though the woman had taken a quick peek into her accomplice's mind and glimpsed too much hairspray, turtlenecks and that upturned nose. She did not know about his side-arrangement with London, and when their Santa Monica tag-team finally dawned on her, it would be another ally lost. _"But besides the whole law-and-order speech, she didn't tell us anything particularly illuminating. Prince was a no-show… must've been oh-so-busy, you know – no time to entreat the peons. Buttercup seemed in a hurry to get back to her papa's side."_

Nines does not take this personally anymore. This is how Jyhad works. When your predator drive transforms into a habitual need for control – a need most all Kindred grew, sooner or later in their unlives – this is what interaction becomes. Everything becomes an excuse to keep yourself in whatever power you could scrape together. He doesn't hold it against London to try her damndest to shoot him down. He did not expect her to accomplish this goal, but he doesn't hate her any more or any less. You don't waste time hating snakes for being what they are.

That does not mean he isn't going to wrap his hands around the Ventrue's throat and squeeze until that bitch bubbles blood.

Later.

For now, the Brujah had to maneuver around her return-fire. Or maybe this was Woeburne's dirty backup plan all along.

Didn't matter which. Whatever Serena had done – however she had side-stepped noosing herself in this mess – it meant there'd be no harbor for him there. Rodriguez cussed, sorting it out. Was there any way to strike back? More importantly, was it worth it? Would it win him anything? He still had files stripped off that Cam's flash drive –seemed like ages ago now – implicating her for lifting idols off Isaac's property… not that theft was worth a spit compared to everything else raging high in LA tonight. And he was pretty damn sure any self-respecting Camarilla clone would be happier riddling holes through him than accepting enemy evidence against their new Seneschal.

That warehouse, though – Woeburne hadn't been wrong. He was lugging a nuke in his pocket, but the Anarch needed high ground from which to launch it.

Better the devil you know.

Hollywood it was.

Nines veered away from Santa Monica, hung up on Jeanette, and dialed the offices of Isaac Abrams.

**II.**

Three Toreador sat quietly in the Baron's lobby.

The typical swank, upmarket air of Golden Age Jewelry had been pulled out by its roots; dim, anxious understatement replaced it, a soberness that brought this sick family crowding together here. None of them spoke. Burnished turquoise spun on the lampshades. Evening light bathed papered walls in watery amber. Cherrywood lost its gloss. Tense nerves weakened the luxury from every corner of this moneyed space, dropping needles off bonsai trees; flattening Edward Hopper into single dimensions; paving decorative mirrors to drab, leaded planes. Ashtrays were immaculate. Diamonds tinkled in glass cases. There was a record player standing open on the coffee table – a real antique. It did nothing for the atmosphere tonight. Spent cigar smoke wafted inwards from the furniture, a sharp, cidery smell making this chamber seem smaller than it was. The room was cringing on its weight. It choked.

Isaac sat in the desk chair and looked his Childer – son and surrogate, both.

It was rare to see them hunched side-by-side here, sharing elbowroom with their Sire. He enjoyed the novelty. Generally, Abrams communicated with Ash only through messages relayed by Velvet, and rarely received responses. This was no disgrace to V.V., however. Her respect provoked the resistant young man, but it was the girl's knack for comforting words that won him… half-blessing as that was. His own Childe sought from V.V. the patient advice and soothings he refused from the Kindred who Embraced him; theirs was a sorry grudge, but one that worked well enough for Isaac's purposes. The boy's resentment was so pervasive and predictable that it enabled his progenitor to control him on levels open admiration wouldn't; it made manipulation look like accidents, management look like leaked information. Reverse psychology defined their relationship. But a direct meeting was unusual – it occurred only by necessity these nights, and even then, never without the backdrop of antipathy. If anything indicated emergency in Los Angeles, this was it.

Isaac looked at his Childer, and wondered how long it would take LaCroix to guillotine him, too.

Ash and Velvet were huddled thigh-to-thigh on the office couch, sutured together despite how hard they pushed against their opposing notions of a father-Sire. He was reliably petulant, slumped onto one side of sofa arm, rejecting eye contact. She appeared edgy and agitated – conservative posture, azalea hair sullen and straight, palms pressed on the knees of her blue hobble skirt. They were everything wrong with the industry. Whatever class they had was overridden by grunge and skin.

Isaac looked at them with concern that was not devoid of a certain atavism.

Baron Abrams had collected his Childer directly from the congregation in Nocturne Theatre. There was no argument – not this time. Their danger-state was clear. If LaCroix was preparing for an organized move against the downtown Anarchs (executing Rodriguez suggested little else), Hollywood would be next on his list. They needed to regroup, to consider their options. This was not a time to make wakes. Isaac did not want to give the Prince any ability to implicate him in Joelle Lefevre's death, particularly not through these helpless children. He took Nines's fall as the treacherous example it was meant to be.

Stamping a bull's-eye on Barons made every faction nervous, Camarilla-aligned or otherwise. Their new magistrate did not see in shades of grey, and his sense of allegiance had always been questionable. This proved it more than anything else had – even beyond enlisting a young Giovanni in his court; even beyond requisitioning Beckett. Those that stood publically against Sebastian LaCroix were no longer welcome in Los Angeles. Removing them became either a matter of bullets or obscure politics – in many cases, both – but no matter the technique, it was only a matter of time.

"I think, if we don't hear anything in another half-hour, I ought to put out a few calls," Velvet said quietly, having lost the honey in her voice. Long, painted fingers were poking into corset buttons. "I have ghouls living downtown that could bring us up-to-date on what the streets look like right now."

Abrams waved her off, flicking the headlight of a tiny Model-T. Five automobiles sat on his cramped desk in miniature. He rearranged the figurines in an assembly-line file, wheels stacking across mug prints and wood-stain. "That's not a good idea. I have plenty of my own agents for that, and I'll tell you: I am not moving a muscle over there. Think it through. Should LaCroix's mooks get one of your people in a vise, he could lay a dozen spying accusations on you – and, by association – all of us." The Baron flashed her an austere, wrinkled look. Graveness was evident behind the patriarchal charm of grey hair and golden eyes. "And then we'll know exactly what those streets look like, because they'll flood into Hollywood. Don't believe for a second they won't. We can't afford to put anything beyond that two-bit baby-faced Prince tonight."

V.V.'s face paled a few notches, but she was not about to argue with her benefactor. Ash simply did not care.

"You can worry about your contacts later," the elder Toreador warned. "For now, my main goal is to keep the both of you out of trouble."

Ash snorted – a sick, bastardized sound. "I'll bet."

_Nathan_.

He clicked a lighter, took one drag, and thunked his head into the sofa back to blow a mouthful of smoke at the fire alarm. It wasn't very long before Velvet snatched the cigarette out of her brother's fingers and snapped it, leaving him to stew on cold air.

"You know I can't stand the smell," she murmured, but the thinness of her pitch made it obvious what this power-play was really about. Velour knew exactly what her belittling gesture had done. _He_ would never admit it – spoiled, sulking child – but the contention was as true for Rivers as it was for his stripper-pink sister.

They hated being around Isaac like this, because proximity to the old, brandied Baron made whatever love these siblings felt twist into competition for their Sire's favor. Neither meant to hurt the other. Not badly, at least… but this competition meant it was impossible to avoid digging thorns. V.V. strove for warmth to compensate for adoption, because she knew – for all his hateful words and brooding; for all her loyalty, honor and obedience – their patron loved her brother more. Ash did not want this affectionate sociopath anywhere near him, mind or body, but there was still that needle of blood-bond that made his approval absolutely vital to the Childe's sense of self.

And they knew – worst of all – that seeing them squirm pleased him.

Velvet leant forward and shoved the butt into one of those spotless opal trays, wetting her lips. Ash shrugged it off.

Abrams was about to ask about their Leopold situation when the telephone rang.

When he answered to Nines Rodriguez's voice, the Toreador – who was normally so self-assured, so blasé in his Domain – hit 'speaker.'

"Am I surprised to hear from you," Isaac remarked, bushy eyebrows scaling his brow, standing from the cushioned chair. His disclosure wasn't a lie. Both Childer fidgeted in their loveseat. "We were waiting for word from the Ventrue; for someone to tell us they'd shot you. What's your situation – did you make it out of LA?"

Their connection was full of static, hard to make out; it sounded as though he was speeding down badly-paved roads with windows open. The Brujah shouted. His fear was packaged up like urgency, but it wasn't difficult to see through. Every bump made the phone lines cough and lose a word. _"No, I – not yet – had some shit to take care of. Listen, I need something from you. I'm – OK. Have a few people – San Fran – on the way. Don't know when. Maybe in a few nights. Can't wait that long."_

"If your aim is to stay around this city waiting for backup, Nines, I doubt you'll still be here whenever they arrive."

A single, unfunny laugh barked through the receiver. But there was nothing comical about either end of this conversation. _"– telling me,"_ Abrams made out. It seemed as though feedback from Hollywood had put Rodriguez at greater ease, for all his frayed nerves – relieved him, even – in the way that sharing secrets did. The Baron frowned. This was not an encouraging thing to hear from a belligerent, power-hungry Brujah who Isaac fully believed would someday rail against him as surely as he had decried Sebastian LaCroix. It spoke leagues about their current state. _"Motherfucker – his Sheriff after me. Hell of a – got away. Barely. Took a few bites out of me. But – deep-throat a pump-action. Least that bastard is out of the picture."_

Ash puffed through his nose, semi-amused, and observed: "Son-of-a-bitch is hard to kill." Isaac shot him a stern glance, because Nines didn't need the ego-stroke.

"Word is you offed one of LaCroix's paper-pushers. What in the world were you thinking? Didn't you consider my stake in this mess? I don't expect you to consult me about every move your people make, but a hit against the Prince's own offices isn't exactly routine."

The Anarch chief was markedly less argumentative than usual, no energy left for bickering with his associates. Their discussion continued. _"Right. Yeah. Look. No time – explain. Did what I had to. Was worth – got to get a load of this. Shit. I don't want to talk about it on the phone, but – any other options. Can't keep this to myself, Abrams. Camarilla finds out about – down in the streets himself to burn me out. Someone has to know. You have to hear this."_

"I'm listening," Abrams granted, hunkering over the desk, corners digging into his palms. V.V. and Ash dropped into silence. "Talk."

"_I broke into one of the Cam's data morgues last night. Needed a pass to get in, which is – waste that bitch. Had a lead on some call records locked up in there; it wasn't real clear, but I grabbed everything I could get my arms around. There's a – cracked it, but – hell of a lot more,"_ Nines swore, anxiety tightening his tone and teeth. His words crackled with interference. But Isaac made out enough. _"I'll run through this fast. From what I am able to understand, the Prince – elect that Giovanni – something about a sarc – in to study it. Don't know anything else about that. Whatever it was freaked the fuck out of some very important people. Made the Sabbat go apeshit. Here's the – lying son-of-a-bitch. These phone records… I can't read them. No transcripts. Probably didn't take them for once – preserve his own ass. But this is not a fucking coincidence. There was that Tong hit on the – killed that professor. You know who bankrolls the Tong."_ Absolutely. _"Seems normal that goddamn devil would try and – LaCroix's plans. But these records. They – call from a Venture Tower extension to – Chinatown. Had Tung – traced it to an office right outside that ugly-as-shit Golden Temple. 'The Red Dragon.' One of Xiao's properties,"_ he hollered, spilling faster, head pounding, hardly able to relay it all. _"There's a lot of calls to this number two, three months ago. Then they stop dead. But right before that shooting – Empire Hotel, it shows up again, then – _right_ fucking after, maybe five minutes – to that Tower. What the fuck does that look like to you, Isaac? What does it look like?" _

The Toreador said nothing, creases slackening from his cheeks and sharp chin. He didn't need to. He looked to his Childer – blinking quietly, boy and girl – reading the frightful way they stared back at him in desperation for guidance.

Baron Abrams winced. "Believe me. I'm not one to doubt the Prince's capacity to be an underhanded, black-hearted traitor. But even I have trouble wrapping my head around this. Why in the hell would LaCroix…?"

"_What does it matter?"_ Nines snapped, fumbling, up-in-arms from his account. Information overload sparked old furies and new conspiracies; it bestowed too much firepower with no means to use it. _"I don't know why, but if – is in league with the Kuei-Jin, this – ruin him. We need to find a – until the right time. Then we have to blare this shit full-force to every corner of the state. Maybe get Gary to do it. Even the Camarilla won't let that fly. See how the fucker likes – for a 'Blood Hunt.' Huh!"_

"They'll kill us," Velvet whispered, drawing the thoughts from her sponsor's mind and speaking them. She was drained of all the colors she didn't plaster on, winding her own fingers for comfort. She held a breath she didn't need. "If you do this, Isaac – if Gary doesn't agree…"

His swallow was enough to cut her off.

"These are some volatile claims. I'd love nothing more to see LaCroix choke on his own plans, but I can't sell it to a council on your word. You are an exile since ten o'clock tonight, my friend. I can't do anything without evidence," the old Toreador pronounced – willing, able, but hands kept clean from the bloodshed that flew this evening. Ash and V.V. did not mutter back and forth between one another. They did not cup private messages from lip-to-ear. Both fledglings teetered on the verge of grim, selfish gratitude.

Rodriguez threatened their respite with his next demand. _"I have the records. All of it. Probably more, but I didn't – time to figure out anything else," _he told them, rushed, breathing through an open mouth.His voice kept breaking, snapped lines, blotted influence. It was the speech of a doomed character. His ink was fading quickly on the page. _"I can get it to you in Hollywood. If you can back me."_

Velvet grabbed for her sibling's hand. He did not extract it.

"_You have to back me."_

The Baron watched them both.

"_Isaac?"_ Nines asked.

He pushed one finger down on 'end.'


	73. Tin Soldier

**Tin Soldier**

_The trick to succeeding in this life is predicting your ally's time limit and preempting it with an adder in their basket.  
- Sebastian LaCroix_

* * *

"I have a job for you," was all he said.

Serena had been standing dazedly in her Sire's penthouse when Sebastian asked this thing of her, unanimated hands hanging at both sides, a cold wall plank pressing between her shoulder-blades. The Seneschal was not active in his planning tonight. She had lingered, mostly unheeded, in an empty corner of her Sire's office, watching nervous Primogen reaffirm their devotion and listening to the phone ring off its holster. Scarlet lounge chairs felt awkward against the Ventrue's spine. Polished table ends were too pristine to prop upon, expensive wood gleaning beneath candle light. So she remained sore and upright. Ms. Woeburne's duties in this Blood Hunt had been limited to turning unimportant traffic away and showing her young face – clean, stoic, certain in Prince LaCroix's impartiality. Her report on Santa Monica sat flagged and unopened upon his desk. She did not think he had actually looked at it.

Nines Rodriguez would be dead soon – that was a sufficient end to the Free-State Problem in Los Angeles.

But it did not mean security for this Domain. Not yet. Not without one very last, very delicate peg screwed into place.

"There have been reports," Sebastian announced, tapping his fountain pen on a datebook, "of an Anarch weapon stockpile in the Griffith Park Observatory. That would not surprise you, surely – but given recent events, I'm afraid I have to bring it up." He was calmer now; the Prince relayed this information with cool cosmopolitan poise. Indigo eyes drained color from blond hair, dark mineshafts in the center of a sharp, placid face. His frustrations were easing as the building blocks slid neatly into place. "I have concerns about this. They are in a poor position to mount real assaults against us, of course…" Ink spat red pox across the birch paper. She saw the dents they left. "But you understand that, while you and I might be beyond their scope, handfuls of well-armed Rabble present a not insignificant threat to our less-experienced peers. It would be very unfortunate to lose up-and-coming members of this organization to Brujah violence. Whatever remains of Rodriguez's loyalists are bound to respond to his death with spectacular fervor, and I'd like to contain their fallout, if we could," the Ventrue observed. He seemed very civilized, at least; his words were clear again and the man's expression looked bizarrely, disturbingly flat after all that heated irritation only hours ago. "There are few better ways to quell dissent than to cut its people from their tools. Do you agree?"

"Of course," she answered, the default response to leading questions from a Prince. Seneschal Woeburne had detached herself from their conversation a few seconds ago, bottle-green eyes smaller – serval-like – without her reading glasses. They were currently peering through Sebastian's marble fireplace with what seemed to be a very hazy look of inattention. It spelled anomie. The tidy knot of umber hair at the base of her neck was exactly as it had been when he acquired her.

"Good," Mr. LaCroix said, laid down the punitive pen, and linked both long hands beneath his chin.

He stared at her a moment, unnerving blue, waiting for Serena to reach the proper conclusion.

"Oh. Right. What do you need from me?" the woman asked, glancing back suddenly, business faculties a bit slow this evening – but seeing as how she'd just been sent barefoot across hot coals, he overlooked it.

"I was hoping you wouldn't mind taking care of this issue for me, actually." He blinked at her when she showed no reaction. "I can't really send a helicopter to flatten park district buildings, you understand. An on-foot approach would be much more practical… not to mention more discreet." Woeburne did not flinch, and this sullenness earned another smidgen of Prince Los Angeles's respect – though it was fully possible the girl's impressive fortitude had only been a side-effect of reeling, as though someone took a gong mallet to her temple. Either way, he continued. "Thus far, we have no reports of Anarchs in the area, although they very well might've holed up somewhere nearby. My main worry is that Nines Rodriguez could be skulking around the woods. His execution is only a matter of time, of course, but I'd discourage you from seeking him out yourself."

"No. God. No," she assured him, a grave and solemn promise. Serena had no desire to ever see the Free-State pariah again. "I won't do that."

LaCroix afforded her a nod and an old slice of affection, worn and threadbare though it was. "Hearing you say so is a considerable relief to your Sire, my dear. It makes me glad to know you've grown out of taking politics so personally. But, at any rate." He cleared his throat into a pale fist. She watched without seeing or hearing – a poured-out milk pitcher. She was like a wine bottle drunk clear. "It's important you make this look like forest fire or arson, and that demands a certain amount of time, so wait until daylight passes us by. Don't worry yourself, however. Rodriguez certainly won't smuggle himself to safety while the sun is burning." He may have been needling for a response. Serena was not sensitive enough to provide. "What I'd like you to do – first thing tomorrow evening – is to drive to Griffith Park, and set fire to the observatory. I'll supply all the necessary equipment, as usual… but please remember, it's critical to both kine and Kindred stability that you do not reveal this for an organized attack. You've been discreet; I don't foresee you having any difficulties. But in the event, do _not_ stir up trouble. Avoid confrontation with Nines Rodriguez. Do you see my meaning?"

"Yes. I'll be careful." It was as though he'd warned her against running with a pair of kitchen scissors. There were no misgivings in Serena's mind. The Seneschal no more believed avoiding Nines Rodriguezwas possible than she believed there lurked a winning play in Jyhad. She knew exactly what her Prince meant for her. But there was no more reaction than this.

"I know you will. You always are so very careful, aren't you?"

She looked at him, unable to feel the paranoia.

And now, of course, the false escape – an open door that led only to a mean, deadly drop: "I have full confidence in your ability to complete this mission deftly and quietly, Ms. Woeburne. Unless you're having second thoughts?" Sebastian wondered, one harsh eyebrow lifting, baiting her with empathy when a bare hook lay beneath. "You've been assigned to this case quite some time now; I could understand if you'd prefer someone else close it. No?"

Ventrue pride was always a Ventrue's downfall; she gritted, jutted forward, and clasped both hands firmly behind that rigid officer's back. Brown curls and black buttons made her glow, anemic. There was no vacillation in the woman's voice when it said, impassionate, "I will see that it gets done" – and he did not doubt her convictions. _This_ provoked her when so many antique emotions no longer did. There were no more Party urges to fight against the misguided hoi polloi, no failing sense of _right vs. wrong_, no capitalist ideals, no intimate vendettas or quailing need to please her progenitor. The young Seneschal realized exactly where she stood in the world. She learned to click her blinders on, ignore the implications of what other fiends said, and accept whatever was dictated as her duty.

She had become a good corporal, Serena Woeburne – firm and expendable as all the best.

That day passed in the blink of a predator eye.

And so she had come to linger here on this bleak, bitter, barren December night – standing in a perfect mirror of her perfect, pretentious bathroom – a soldier plating herself with armor, ammunition and faceless, corporate tin.

Kevlar straps pulled shut easily enough across her chest and stomach; flat-soled boots laced snugly around the Ventrue's calves. The combat knife she did not know how to use slid quickly down a sleeve sheath. Pistols, Kahr and Glock, clasped neatly at each hip. Cartridges tucked away inside pockets. Pant legs were choked by thigh holsters. Hanks of dull brunette wound tightly into a painful, too-formulaic French braid. Gasoline cans sloshed in her car trunk. Incendiaries were stacked in the dash. Gloves covered these whitish hands she'd washed and wrapped to zip around both wrists, protecting prominent blue veins. This trench coat had snapped over the bulletproof vest and pouches of shells, cloaking it all, sweeping her bristle beneath a layer of unparticular black.

Her face was sober and colorless in the glass; her sink was full of duct tape and soapy water, suds floating around a clogged drain.

"_The trick to succeeding in this life is predicting your associates' time limits," Sebastian had told her, ridiculous ivory suit and low voices across the gala table. "And preempting outright violence with adders in their baskets."_

She lifted this adder from a case of bubble wrap, feeling its substance like new ice beneath her nerve endings. She would not trust Prince LaCroix with her life again. She would obey his commands without resistance – because, with Kuei-Jin murders sizzling at the back of her mind and card house toppled by Anarch duplicity – Serena Woeburne was ultimately her Sire's creature. But she would not guzzle his agendas and taste truth anymore. No more so, at least, than any insidious Ventrue who'd cut her teeth might expect.

He said:_ "Control your situation by realizing that __you__ are the sole proponent of your goals."_

The pistol she'd bought for this goal was not discreet; it was large, squarish, pristine and full of circuit-charged ammunition that would plunge deep and cook.

She had learned to turn a cheek; she had learned not to leave her ends unfinished.

Serena felt odd with such a heavy piece of ordinance pulling at both sets of fingers. There was no slinging the handgun about in fancy arcs or stowing it beneath a hem; there would be no whipping it up in the style of Westerns, a rapid-fire spray-and-pray. It did not _pop!_ like her sidearms of the past. The sounds it made in the shooting range, slide ripping down the chassis, were powerful and deafening: _BANG. BANG. BANG_. They were the kind of sounds that brought down Russian boars and Bengal tigers in one shot. She swallowed the kick from palm to gut, shoulder bouncing in its socket.

Weapons of this caliber were not intended for casual marksmanship. They were made to take down monsters. This particular model, in fact, was a hunter's weapon – stolen off some unfortunate Leopold crusader and repurposed. It would have made the likes of Grünfeld Bach ill to see Sebastian LaCroix's Childe profane their holy tool, nominating it as her saving grace. But the sensitivities of religious fanatics did not change the rules. A vampire-killer was a vampire-killer in anyone's hands.

She hefted the frosty block of metal – fresh, shaven steel. It made her arm plummet. Its trigger snapped loudly, its barrel gleaned, and the muzzle was weighted down by an electric core.

"_The spokes keep turning and the broken chips fall off." _Bloody comforts from an outlaw with throne made of bones._ It's a gross truth. _And it's the only one._  
_

A wolf sans his pack is a fraction of the threat, but a lion is a lion at all times. Equality of danger has always been the question. She is a lonesome large-mouthed beast. She is going to kill a running Baron with this gun.

She does what she has to.

Serena Woeburne stood in her perfect bathroom with her perfect pistol, and she squeezed imaginary bullets at devils that haunted a perfect mirror.

* * *

_**Note**_**: Those with **_**Bloodlines**_** currently installed should try out Lenuska's Arsenal mod (it's included in the excellent Clan Quest mod). It fits seamlessly and exchanges several original weapons for less-campy versions. **


	74. Kingdom Come

**Kingdom Come**

_If you see the Buddha on the road, kill him.  
- Lin Chi_

* * *

In all her daydreams, Nines looks at her the same way – standing in the dark with that same keelhauled, speechless, beaten stare.

…

_Serena cocked the handgun._

"_Prince LaCroix sends his regards," she quipped, squeezed the trigger, and shot him once in the skull._

…

_Serena cocked the handgun._

"_I do what I have to," she murmured, pulled the trigger, and shot him thrice in the chest._

…

_Serena cocked the handgun._

"_The spokes turn, motherfucker," she snarled, pumped the trigger, and shot him in one wide blue eye._

…

On a roll of cold grass above Los Angeles, Serena cocks the handgun. She stares; stops. She said nothing at all.

He drew an Eagle and shot her twice to the lungs.

* * *

The first bullet slammed into her Kevlar vest and shattered, spitting lead into Seneschal Woeburne's collarbone and breasts. It pitched her backwards, cracked her head forward, punched the stricken Ventrue airborne. Breath explodes in her diaphragm. Shards rip skin. The second bullet pierces deep, crushes through her sternum, bursts blood up Serena's throat and from her mouth in fat droplets that spray far. The hunter's pistol flies off and is lost somewhere in limestone rocks, a glint of silver in thin, black air.

Nines dispassionately watches her body hit the dirt and tumble thrice, thumping like a shot goose behind tall weeds, disappearing. She seizes for a moment in the Kentucky Blue. Scarlet paints the stalks. The silence is devastating. His face is like steel.

He stares down the Eagle back, clicks the hammer, and waits to see if she'll stand up again.

Woeburne can only grab her throat. She gasps – a hideous, human sound – choking red, spasms wracking the Seneschal as though she needs to breathe. Air gurgles loudly up and down the wet bronchs. Pants spatter through her lips, panic in a crimson color, chest overflowing; it seeps directly from the flat, punctured bone over her heart. Her muscle locks, bunches and coils. Hard earth bruises. Pebbles cut and stain both knees. Her eyes are wide, and deathly whites push out every trace of familiar green.

"You – shot me!" she shouts, burbling, rattled to the core. It is an expression of complete, mortal surprise. Seneschal Los Angeles sounds oddly like a child blown away.

The shock and spat-out blood does not hinder Rodriguez. He fires another round, knocking a bullet into her ribs this time. It breaks one or two of them before bouncing off the punished vest. There is no avoiding this; Woeburne hits her stomach, squealing like the kicked bitch she is. Mercy-pleas melt in the woman's airways before they can form; hysterics are not recovery. Cruor surges, mucusy and dark, until even false Ventrue notions of invulnerability refuse to carry her further. Her fumbling only makes a mess of herself. She twitches. She lies still.

She could have shot him, Serena swears to herself – but it had never occurred to Sebastian LaCroix's Childe that he might shoot her.

**x 60**

"_Been a long time coming,"_ she imagined a certain Brujah might say of this mountaintop.

It was an accurate thing to think, all things considered, though perhaps something neither one of them would actually utter in the face of it. None of this – beyond those first, startling shots – had been unexpected. Kamikaze missions disguised as milk-runs were commonplace in Camarilla colonies; they did not feel foreign. A death-order on Nines Rodriguez did not surprise the young Seneschal whatsoever; it was casual war-crime. She had not been left aghast, forced again to question her service; too much unfurled across Chicago and Los Angeles for Prince LaCroix's maneuvers to appall his stalwart corporal since Beckett's flight. She had not been stunned, because Ms. Woeburne knew her Sire was fully capable of the brutality and deception required for such a political risk. She had not even been satisfied, really, though there was a time not so terribly long ago in which Serena campaigned for this very sentence. Not anymore. That fire in the Ventrue's belly had burned out.

And the saying so – throat tight through a choke and a laugh last night – had suddenly made old convictions, toxic rivalries, ash. Ms. Woeburne realized how late this declaration was; realized what it looked like, lying here with two bullets in her chest. She didn't care. Venom had been spat on the telephone, but they were empty spurs, closed fists. With the clarity of demise in her sight, Serena found she did _not_ hate Nines Rodriguez… who was, for all his posturing, just one more losing player in this unwinnable game. What victory was there to be had in hating him? – Nines Rodriguez, burning Baron of a burning empire, never-quite-great, backed against these walls he'd built with all the ugly final gambits dead men could make. It was such a familiar story for a bureaucratic age. What she felt about its ending was far less particular than hate.

This city had forced her to learn something about undeath, but none of the rituals or conventions LaCroix's dry Childe came to expect. Vindictive lessons, unsightly ones – Nines and Sebastian both had been spectacular teachers. If anything, she thought, their world was human malice amplified: the base instinct, the selfishness, the merciless push to survive applied to cold flesh and killer's teeth. All you needed to see these laws were nails to pull off the charm. Ultimately, it was as useless to hate in this carnivore world as it was to love; these were vestiges that meant nothing. She did not have the energy left for it.

Serena no longer wanted Nines Rodriguez to die; she merely needed him to.

Yes, it had been a long time coming; yet this deep-tissue stoniness that took root inside her was not the product of standing before a Primogen council and delivering execution warrants. It wasn't bought by knives stuck in back blades or nicknames earned, not asked for_; _it wasn't the result all their alliances, tolerances, and false friendships exhausted. It was not the rumors about that wretched sarcophagus, one historian's departure and another's assassination, Sabbat bombing raids, Chinatown mobilization, Giovanni cannibalism. It was not even the thumbprints of Kuei-Jin conspiracy she had made her excuse to _wake up_. Surely, these things all bent the Prince's protégé (could she even think that inflated word without disgust, tongue wedged in a cheek?). But her will was, if nothing else, resilient. It took tons to shatter that.

Yet when Sebastian spelled out suicide with a last, ironic "my dear," Ms. Woeburne felt the distinct sensation of something snap inside her.

When she powered-down her Jaguar in Griffith Park's desolate parking lot, gasoline cans slopping diesel in its trunk, Serena had not yet been afraid. Stoicism granted that. The Seneschal twisted off her ignition, climbed out, and tasted the chilled mountain air. Insects and electrical wires buzzed alongside the suffocating silence of trees. Pine needles and woodchips were thick, earthy, their smell a stark contrast to the tar of downtown LA. Squirrels rustled cones in limbs. Engine metal cooled. Unlatched screen doors creaked on the tamarack warden houses. She breathed deep. Animal sounds and this cool, northwardly wind – they hitched something strange and wild up the Ventrue's neck. Grim resolution had dethreaded the nerve bundles clustering along her spine. If there was no use fighting the wheel, why ought she to bother with fear? There were only three possible outcomes waiting up that slope, she knew: none of them promised leaving alive. His death, hers, or the vague and unkind illusion that perhaps America's last Brujah Baron would not be burrowed atop this rocky deathtrap.

So Serena had carted her petrol to the cable car, placed the detonator neatly upon a seat, and listened as it clinked up into a thatch of mountainside.

She never really believed it would be possible to skirt around Nines Rodriguez, knowing enough of Anarch contingency plans to swear off this place. But the woman had hoped. Those frail hopes were abolished when Seneschal Woeburne looked down through the plastic window, past spotlights reflected off Mt. Lee, beneath the California oaks and sage and gnarled pink Manzanita to see a familiar red truck rutted in a gravel ditch. The branches and knotty undergrowth did not conceal its glinting fender from her bird's-eye-view.

Her stomach did not drop – it twisted. Serena rubbed one hand over the heavy firearm strapped inside her coat. She had done nothing more.

She feels – right now, two holes punching through a flat breastbone – identical to the single, stupid shot that went banging from her dropped gun: _ineffective_. It is the worst sensation for someone like her.

The night had not begun this way, defined by powerlessness. Gallons of clear, toxic gas had glugged easily around Griffith Park Observatory. She doused beams; saturated clumps of parched, mowed grass; tossed bricks through a few windows to accommodate flame-feeding oxygen. Benzene burned the few open pores it touched. It stained her gloves; she stripped and flung them into a tinder pile. There were no sightings of hostile Anarch malcontents prepared to stop her. Nor was there any sign of Nines Rodriguez. Ms. Woeburne did not think about this, the lump in her throat sealing it shut. Perhaps she would be all right. Perhaps he only dumped the vehicle here to lead trackers astray; perhaps he'd concealed it in case of future need. Perhaps he had fled Los Angeles completely. Perhaps someone had already killed him.

Perhaps he was dug out in a tool shed with rifle crosshairs centering that small keyhole of skin on the back of her neck.

Serena's body hair stood on end. She had poured out the remainder of gasoline sloppily – until a dropped match would engulf this mountain like cigarette paper – and armed her single charge. It tucked beneath a loose tile of the central room subtly enough. Tall, empty walls and craftwork paint could not overpower the smells of fossil fuel.

Nines Rodriguez dead, and there was only one more weak link in Woeburne's path to self-preservation: Zachary Leonard – poor, unprotected Nosferatu neonate.

The Seneschal was not a murderer. She would not skulk over to that creature's haven, snap his neck and torch all traces of her name. She would not call for a mafia hit order. But she _had_ arranged for Gary Golden's hackers to stumble across false data – data that implicated this Camarilla agent of spying on Hollywood's own Sewer Rats – which was, in effect, the same thing. When they uncovered it, her clueless abettor would not last the evening out. Of that she could be reasonably certain. There was always a chance they'd follow this leak back to her, but Serena doubted it, and had an alibi primed. The courts could hardly fault her for stumbling across and keeping such a file on record, doctored or not; how could she, sheltered Ventrue sycophant, have known it was inauthentic? Furthermore, the Lepers had many enemies who might profit from baiting a Prince's Childe, didn't they? Her encryption skills were not stellar, yet they would be enough. A foul way to dispose of fledgling pawns, she knew – believe this: she _knew_ – but there was no other out. This was the way of their world, and Serena would not fail in it. Ms. Woeburne had been hatcheting herself this backdoor for months now; she spent the dismal morning before marching on Hollywood assembling handguns and tying off stray ends.

If you could keep your breakfast down… being a snake was not so difficult, after all.

The Ventrue set a safe, conservative fifteen-minute bomb timer. Plenty of leeway to descend the cliffside before ignition, though it would only take a _pop_. She'd hop out, walk swiftly to her idling car, and drive off with Griffith Park burning softly into oblivion. Whatever else happened in the coming nights, this stage was painfully straightforward. There was nothing complicated about Serena's plan: light, ravage and leave. Scorched-earth the Anarchs, a Brujah strategy. Keep moving. Sun Tzu made it simple. Everything would be fine. She would be fine.

What else was there that meant anything in this life? She had to survive. She had to stay alive. There was nothing more to count upon.

She would not die like Victor de Luca. She would not.

Serena had stepped out of the columned white building, awash in yellow flood lights, features seared into nothingness. She took three steps across concrete and onto the withering December lawn. She had frozen. The Kindred's eyes were dark, deep holes gored into the depths of a human skull.

That was where Nines Rodriguez shot her down.

**x 59**

Now Seneschal Los Angeles is dying in an itchy square of grass.

There is a boot sole grinding into her chest. Woeburne cannot help but spit blood over it, liquid woofing out of the Ventrue's damp lungs when the Brujah kicks her over, spattering up one leg of his jeans. Nines does not care. He steps down. Hard. The ensuing spray is a Spartan satisfaction – in that it mirrored so many other deaths, and in that its color was not actually royal blue. Woeburne's flailing, too, is satisfactory. It is like pushing your toes onto a fish. She is a pinned eel under half his weight, chucked out of its element, middle compromised, wheezing her insides into the dirt, vampiric muscle struggling to eject the bits of lead. It does not heal fast enough. She is just a little too young. _'Good,'_ he thinks; he can't help it; it's a vestigial reaction, just like London's gasps, just like the bone that keeps protecting a heart that's already died. It's a meaningless word. _Good_. A Free-State loss is not so one-sided. A Seneschal dies red and thrashing and inglorious like the rest of them.

A strangled "STOP" would be the last thing Serena said, cornered and officious as she has always sounded when speaking to him. She is unable to finish for the gagging and the fear. He doesn't know if the kid meant "stop where you are" or "stop shooting." There is only the stark, unattached command – withdraw, cease, desist – and that's all. Nines thinks it is appropriate for her.

He hefts and clicks the pistol, aiming the sight at that sharp, priggish, pretentious nose, his stare like stripped machine metal. Serena gazes down the black mouth and flinches because her body knows nothing else to do.

Poor London. He feels no pity for poor London anymore.

There are many justifications the old Baron could provide for having to do this; there are more than enough scratched-out names to explain why he wants to. He knows LaCroix has sent her skittering up here to kill him, something akin to pouring a jelly jar of his own blood down the garbage disposal. Furthermore, he can see that she is as frightened as the Ventrue is resigned – run ragged, reeking of petroleum. It crosses his mind to pick up one of those spent gas cans, spill the last few drops on her collarbone, then drop a lighter. It crosses his mind to plant a slug into her stomach, instead; to chain this bitch down to the bed of his truck like a dead deer and wait for a sunrise. Let the next Camarilla fuck to come hauling up here half-cocked find the bleached bones of their predecessor glittering out in a winter moon. Elm leaves would suck up the blood. Afternoon air would blow the wasted ash through and from her skull.

More than anything else, it occurs to the Brujah that maybe Serena Woeburne ought to suffer more for all the damage she has already done – willing and unwitting – and for whatever other rotten deeds were underway tonight. These crossroads were an inevitability. They have been on a collision-course to destroy each other one of these bitter evenings in West America; it would be fitting, then, to rip LaCroix's Childe to pieces as a last trophy before some other greased cog puts him down… an indignity she would repay him, Nines is sure.

He doesn't do or say any of this. He decides it does not matter.

Really, beyond self-preservation and vain pushes for control that looked like freedom-fights – beyond the files in his dash and long-shot, stupid hopes – this is how he knew it would turn out. Nines has always known that someday he would lose this war.

Just wished he'd had a little more time.

The sound the bullet makes as it slides home and locks makes Woeburne start screaming nonsense.

"In another life, London," he says, because _sorry_ at this point is just another lie.

He pulls the trigger at the same moment the mountain explodes.

* * *

_There are eighty pounds of astrolite buried beneath Griffith Park Observatory. Eighty pounds is all that's left of them – eighty pounds of final effort bought in the end game; eighty pounds of funeral pyre prepared for when Nines Rodriguez has shot his very last round. They are encased in plastic, paper and thick white insulation. They are packaged messily into shipping crates. They sit quiet, sinister, largely unknown. They are in groups of three – cute, nestled eggs – to accompany the C4 boxes and hand-grenades and Molotov stock built up during six years of failing siege. They are live and hateful. And they huddle in a cellar below the cold, primed, high-caliber armory that Sebastian LaCroix has supposedly sent his Childe for._

_When the timer ticks zero, they all go up like ocean flares._

* * *

You can't have described the sound.

The concrete that rains up; beams that detonate into each other; the glass that bursts out of shaken frames – it is all a shattered windshield. Hunks of cement hurtle overhead, catapulting off into the woodland. Bits and pieces of stairwell cartwheel away. Paint sears off and is whisked into nothingness. Wire twangs off electrical poles, bringing them crashing down into conifers, a terrifying series of white-blue pops. Metal siding smolders, drips. Bulbs burst. Large granules of brick sail upwards only to tumble back down. Iron wreckage cuts deep, gruesome gashes through heated shale, scarring deep into the earth. That inelegant copper dome of Griffith Park Observatory has blown its top – spewing tourism and science and shell casings, hailing cartridges and Anarch last resorts, choking out old hatreds and new vendettas and executions that have not happened yet – a volcanic boom that tears up this cliffside. The telescope melts inside. Mt. Lee groans.

The sound is incredible. The sound alone could have brought Hollywood to the ground.

The forest is on fire.

There is no time to plot out _what it means_. Pine trees roar up like candlewicks; their green fingers crinkle, smoke, die. Oaks bubble sap. Ivy pips off trunks. Sugar sumac flames lobster-red and crumbles dry, wicked brown. Boulders crack, pummeled by debris. The smells are alive and murderous. Green spirals into gold and carmine and oil-black – this destruction is instantaneous and in no way expected. Manmade structures do not satiate. It gobbles up the foliage and spits out flakes of hot, steaming ash.

They whiten in the air before wafting down – bleak, deadly snow.

A fight waits precious yards outside the immediate blast radius. Heat and light bombard them into stupor; Rodriguez's bullet has missed and twanged just north of Serena's left ear, whose sad screechings the aftershocks have eaten away. Their expressions slacken. The way the landscape billows and expands humbles even predators; blanched, dead hues are bathed orange in the glow. They forget each other for a moment. They gape with arid, stinging eyes.

The forest – everything – is razed to coal and carrion.

Nines is dazed, jaw ajar, pupils tiny black dots in glossy whites. He stands limply over Woeburne. His Eagle slackens with his arm; she notes the Anarch is breathing, dumbstruck, drawing the toxic air in shallow mouthfuls. "NO," he screams, bellow and dismay. His face is devastation, sunk with the culmination of a thousand nights that explodes and collapses upon itself before him. _No, no, no_ – as if saying so would do something, insist change. It is a miserable mantra as everything certain burns. It all goes up in flame: every strangled hope of survival, every romantic notion of defeat, every hollow comfort of stealing away your own death. This hour is something he had been running towards a very long time, felt but not faced. One second is all you need to dismantle such concentrated momentum; one second is all to gut a Baron down to skin, flesh and bone.

The wheel stops turning when it breaks.

Maybe it is blood loss. Maybe it is the way this pyre flares into a wet black sky, how colors look deep on clear nights, stars through smokescreen that make all of this feel small. Maybe she is cruel. But from where Serena lays upon the grass, core aching beneath him, there is a strange crystal quality about how everything withers. There is nothing false, nothing acted on the face of the man who has shot her; he is genuine, genuinely crushed, more mortal than monster and more ghost than alive. There are half-healed contusions and scrapes she didn't lay that make him already look like a battlefield haunt. From this angle, she can see the glint of his teeth. Rifles roast; poison black vapor. Her ears ring. Baron Los Angeles watches his last square of world obliterated, and there is something beautiful about it all.

The power game comes almost to its storybook end: a lesson taught, a complete disappointment, wolf routed and lion run to her death.

The Ventrue is first to recover. Before he can bear down, remember vengeance, she rips a fresh Glock from her waist – she wrenches up through this crippling pain in her chest – and she empties it in the vampire's stomach.

The fire and the wounded Brujah have morphed into one uniform roar. Six shots into his belly. All of them hit, splitting straight through. Nines is taken to his knees by the shock as much as the impact. Woeburne rolls away and tries to scramble to safety; it is more of a disgraceful crawl for the nearest mound of rock, brunette fringe and soil and cinders all stuck to the blood patina on her face. Hemorrhaging lungs are held in place by broken ribcage and Kevlar straps. Nines Rodriguez holds his guts in with one hand.

With the other, he gropes for his second Eagle – the first has been kicked – and fires blindly after her. One cartridge sinks bluntly into the Seneschal's thigh. She barks when it bites, hip folding, but scrambles breathily behind a wall of sandstone. Her back flattens against the rough slab. Her eyes squeeze shut, teeth grinding. Her head whips back and strikes rock, desperate to feel something besides this pulsing lead-burn, and Serena yelps, gargling fluid. It leaks plentifully from both corners of her lips. It flies when the Ventrue huffs wildly for breath she cannot catch and does not need.

Slick digits reload her handgun. They then grip tightly around suffering leg muscles. Dripping hanks of hair cling to throbbing temples; meat burns as though rubbed against a salt block. Her nerves, if nothing else, are very much alive. She shoves her thumb into the wound. Everything hurts so badly – another spear of pain bizarrely clears her vision, chasing dizziness away – frenzy is almost a welcome companion, roosted somewhere beneath Woeburne's consciousness. There is a city shimmering over the hills miles below.

"NINES," she calls, because Serena does not know what else to do. She pants. Her ears strain for noise that is not crackling wood. She does not mean for it to sound so worried. "ARE YOU STILL ALIVE?"

A magnum clip crumbles the stone above her head in response.

The fire is large and sweltering at London's back; it blisters Nines's face, the disaster zone of Free-State that blazes before him. His shoulders are pressed against a great, flaking sequoia that sheds bark the color of rust. Red cinders fall softly. They smolder into his jacket; burn his face when they land. Blood blacker than the asphalt drips from his abdomen. He looks down with eyes more crimson than cobalt. It floods his shirt, runs through his fingers, overcomes the dam that is his belt, rolls in drops down denim already speckled with Woeburne's spit and plasma. His first Eagle is lying somewhere in the field with that demonic fifty London brought to kill him. He hears her scream when shots volley out, granules bouncing off Serena's hair and hands, but it does nothing for him. The Brujah blinks. He stares with a slack, incredulous jaw. He slides down.

Boom.

_Gone_.

He yells at her because it is his only volume now. There's no other way to react. There is no explanation, either, but he asks because it is his only question. "WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE?"

"IT WASN'T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN LIKE THIS," she hollers back, rasping, bubbling when the blood does not stop. Her bewilderment has an edge of fright to it, of slipping control. She is trying to _make_ it make sense. He knows by now that never works. "THIS ISN'T THE PLAN; THIS ISN'T-"

"YOU RUINED EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING. OH, _SHIT_." Curses splinter into a stung, wolfish sound when Rodriguez tries to reload and ends up fumbling the magazine. He is somewhere between a growl and a whimper. Clan resilience is failing around naked rounds. If it had not been for that fucking Sheriff. If only yesterday had not been a lopsided brawl in a Santa Monica sewer; if only Isaac Abrams had taken the initiative to understand; if only they'd called San Francisco earlier, instead of waiting on a stack of bombs; if only he had more time… Nines had 'If Only' driving in tight circles through his mind, staggering him worse than the rubble of Griffith Park. There is no bunker. There is no last stand. There are no reinforcements or Los Angeles checkmate for Nines Rodriguez. This is – finally – where it all disintegrates for him. There is only a handful of minutes, maybe, to push these bland pink tissues back inside himself and "Got to get out of here," he mumbles, barely cognizant of speaking out loud. "We're too close; gonna burn. We got to-."

"I don't think I can," London tells him – straightforward, harsh, pitiably objective. The expanding cartridge is wedged in a ball of tendons just below her inner knee. Something twirls and knots there. She wipes her mouth with a sleeve and only smears it. "I can't stand up. My God, there's so much…" It's ponderous – as though she is, reeling with palms pressed to a concaved chest, daunted by how fast and fluidly the colors spill from her. They are bizarrely, humblingly human. "There's so much blood. There's…"

Not enough swimming inside to heal. Fortitude swims lazily along her femur; she is only just able to close to fingers around the shell, pinch, and pluck a fragment out.

There is movement by the redwood two minutes later; she fires.

"DON'T," Woeburne snarls, voice winging high, fracturing on aggression. The Ventrue is like a feral cat cornered into a fence wall; too vulnerable to flee, she stands her ground with magnified size and overkill. Her arm extends and shakes. Her Kahr keeps clicking, seeking another bullet that is still tucked within its owner's pockets. Unable to reload, joints gummy and reluctant, the Ventrue exchanges it for the last Glock set a moment late. Blood clots fly from her nose, tiny fragments that might as well be shreds of lung. Maybe they are. Serena can only see what looks like a feather of black hair around the tree – it is enough to make her pump the trigger. She may be incapacitated, but she will not let him leave. "DON'T MOVE! I'll kill you. I swear I'll shoot your fucking head off!"

It is a sincere but useless threat. There is nothing more LaCroix's unrelenting corporal can do to him. She has already upended everything left there was to spare in this worthless goddamn state.

"We're not going anywhere," the Seneschal rumbles, and there is something sacrificial there that makes her statement more a prophecy than a warning.

They linger and watch the world go up in flames.

"YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO DO THIS," Nines shouts at her, somehow still upon his feet, finally ramming the pistol full. Frustration makes him ragged. The blood loss transforms years of righteous fury to torture; he grinds his teeth, wincing, furious and unable to run against the fire. "IT DIDN'T HAVE TO BE LIKE THIS. _FUCK_," he spits when a second, smaller burst rattles what is left of that auditorium bonfire. Dark brows furrow until the grueling ash can no longer whisk into his eyes. His fangs are growing and cutting. He hurts. "GOD DAMN IT, LONDON. COULDN'T LET IT BE."

Serena says nothing. She frowns and juts her chin, indignant at these accusations, stiffening against the warm rock back – both because she has nothing to satisfy, and because he already knows why things had to end _exactly_ like this.

"YOU'RE GOING TO BURN, VENTRUE," he snarls, as though it might still mean anything to her – fists slamming against unbreakable glass, a Brujah unable to wound. "YOU HEAR ME?! YOU BURN JUST LIKE WE DO. YOU SET THIS FIRE; _YOU_ DID. AND YOU'RE GOING TO…" He is not so different. He is not so much better than the rest of his temper-drunk clan. With options dissolved, followers dead, cult alienated, he can find nothing else to do but let his backlog kill him. But because he refuses, a child in wolf clothing, he blames. "Coulda' just walked away. After all that. FOR NOTHING. _Shit_."

London does not care about his blame. He is not so much different than her.

"Should have killed you the moment I had the chance," he seethes, spitting. The fire burns. They exchange another volley; shells twang dumbly off rock and wood. Should have said: "BIGGEST GODDAMN MISTAKE OF MY LIFE. Should have cut your fucking neck. Should have ripped out your throat, you stupid, selfish whore."

But instead –

"MOTHERFUCKING KILLED ME," says the Anarch-Prince, holding the pieces of himself together – and the rage flares inward and crumbles to an embarrassing, doglike whine. "I let you kill me. Son-of-a-bitch."

Nines Rodriguez killed by a Camarilla tin soldier; Free-State California brought down by a little tin soldier of LaCroix.

**x 42**

It occurs to him that there will be sirens soon.

Minutes pass like hours in a furnace. This is not unusual; mortality gives time a fine edge, something Nines learned too early in life. Every shot fired – and there are many of them over the parched winter weeds – dents their chances of escaping this reserve, endangering both Brujah and Ventrue for multiple reasons. But none of these threats factor. Gehenna might wail up this mountainside and neither could unlock the horns between them; with each tug away, they clang together harder, wretchedly stuck. The Anarch tries to refocus. Rodriguez knows his fingers and front and sides and face must all be a frightening pitch, hunkered here, oozing. He knows the wounds and the failure have distorted his senses. He can feel the oppressive thickness of this fire, rolling off in currents as gusts overwhelm trees, creeping closer. Its glow paints him whiter and redder with every inch of proximity. The flames wash necrotic flesh as they inch forward; they pull the silver out of his eyes.

Serena has gotten very quiet in the past ninety seconds. He wonders, with all the cold blood and numbness Kindred mentality brings, if she has died. He wonders if that even matters now; how far he might make it down this mountain; if there is even enough of her left to lick off the grass. Probably not. London has never been one for charity. She's an industrial bitch to the last. She leaves no excess behind.

"Woeburne," he calls out, eyes and throat powerfully dry, testing. The Eagle stays in his hand. Nines's fist has fit so tightly around it; he does not think he could let it go. "Woeburne, you dead yet?"

Two bullets kick the dirt a yard away. He cannot see her pistol flash through all this smoke. She might have shouted something, but Rodriguez can't quite make it out; perhaps it's only the crinkling juniper. Maybe she just yowls out of spite. What he can hear is a six-shooter cycle, metal gears clinking away. It springs, reloads, whirls into place. Saplings blister as he considers returning fire. He does. Another chunk of raspy stone blows off its base, scattering into sand, but this neglects to scare her anymore. It's barely even frustrating.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP," London roars, sounding just like she did taped down to that damned folding chair. "STOP TALKING TO ME."

London is getting heavy-eyed, Nines thinks, and the lull of Final Death turns even purebloods into tigers.

She shoots again, cartridges that twang off into nowhere. There is so much to wonder about now, Nines knows, perilously close to becoming tinder – many details that are more important than his enemy. He still has to wonder if Woeburne is bothering to aim. She cannot maintain that cool cosmopolitan flak at this point, tongue filmed with what her own death will be like. It tastes of ash. Her meat dries out into the macadam and the woman's last thoughts are preoccupied with gunning him down. She's a tool right up to her own goddamn curtain call. It makes the Anarch bark, muzzle wrinkling, a vicious expression.

He snorts; spits. Blood hits earth. He's gotten used to the dark, deadly hue. "Can't even lie down and die, can you? You fucking snake. You can't even give me that."

These insults are cheap, even if he means them. Words do not damage the Seneschal any more than this noxious air, a fruitless danger inside lungs that don't breathe. They do make her thunder. It is disgust and fatigue that hoists Serena's weapon higher. Head slackened, narrow chin lagging toward her concaved chest, she bears sharp red royal fangs. They hiss. It is a weak, futile, vanity sound. It slurs.

"Fuck you. I wanted to be free," Woeburne growls – of Los Angeles; its brutal Prince; and of this beaten old Baron, whose legacy has become a prison weight dragging at the Ventrue's neck.

A pillar of cyprus folds beneath its mass, splits like lightning, and keels over with arms crackling flame. The death of a tree is resolution to painful suspense. Its arc lands in ruin and heartbreaking relief.

It's finally ending.

The shockwave of that trunk sends slag skittering every which way, sparks flaring, splinters crunching in a violent burst. It releases a wall of heat that is beyond physically uncomfortable. Embers do more than drift down from canopies; they sizzle and split open from logs, glancing off tangled metal heaps, wearing more holes in the Brujah's already battered jacket. Makeshift torches will not cauterize; they'll only kill. He turns his head away because it's all too close to look at now.

Nines lifts a pistol against one shoulder. It seems like a superhuman effort. His suggestion is quieter; it is no less resentful. "I'm not going to sit here waiting to die." Though guerilla war for LA looks more and more like it clinging to these last few inches of rope. "I'm not like you." Though that's upsettingly less true than either one of them would admit. "You want to take my head back to your Prince? You think you still can? Come get it."

"I can't," she confesses.

A defeated pause, and then:

"I've about run out of bullets."

Her skull rolls against sandstone. There is no whip left to the Seneschal's primed, compact, resigned voice. How can there be? The weapon she'd wanted is full and lost to her; the Glock is jammed with a mismatched mag; the Kahr has devoured everything she had to offer it, teething on three last shells. They won't kill him. She is too weary for another bolt of revenge. And she cannot see clearly enough to hit the Anarch on a prayer.

He can't trust her word, of course; a Ventrue needs no reason to lie, and she has several. Possibilities of escape flare up and are quickly lost in the shadow of time limits passed. Shelter does not exist for him anymore. Hollywood has always been smoke and mirrors, Toreador bargains made of fool's gold. There is one place to retreat from this mountain: into the crowded city streets, LaCroix's Domain, where a hundred vigilantes wait to carve him up. Two brawls into this Blood Hunt and he does not know if his body can fight again – or if its stitchings will even hold together long enough to try. The best tactics will only lead to one place, one point, one dead end with no alibis. Stay, leave – die. Rodriguez will be flushed into a wolf-run. Perhaps it's worth risking; perhaps a glimmer of chance is better than _this_, but he isn't sure he wants to give some faceless suit the satisfaction. And he cannot quite think right now.

"I don't believe you," the Brujah chuffs, a bizarre sound with a backdrop of burning. "I wouldn't believe anything that fell out of your mouth."

"I'm counting on it."

Nines laughs because he was right: Woeburne had exactly one more in her before LaCroix used his progeny up.

One was enough.

"What the fuck is the Ankaran Sarcophagus?" he asks, because there's no need to hide it now.

"I don't know," she deflects.

"You don't know?"

"I'm not sure."

A dozen dodged questions asked in passenger seats come to mind. Theirs has been a working relationship built _in transit_ – the only place that two people from such opposing walks of life could speak, one that stops existing once the wheels do. He can't help find it funny how she still clings to these lies. He shouldn't, though; he knows Serena pretty well. There are some guns she'll stick to until this cliff deteriorates beneath their feet. There is no reality otherwise. She has no option but to stomp and shout and insist what so many have died for must mean _something_. It is a frighteningly familiar desperation; it is a convenient excuse for the horrors you commit to stay alive.

Death had a sense of humor, after all. Decades of life, battle preparations, fortifications paid for by blood debts… and it all ends in a Mexican standoff with Serena fucking Woeburne.

"That's the story you're sticking with." It makes him snort, head shaking. This coup has crumbled to a weary comedy of errors. All that's left is opening to a mad, bleary grin and a sigh. "Fuck me, Woeburne. Dependable to the last. Really something. Shit – _you_ called it, London. You know you saw right through your Prince," he remembers, not that she was expected to act, spent of her last hurrah. It seemed cruel to leave so much unfinished. God. He had held the Camarilla's machete – for a moment, twirled their execution, doom condensed in a single disk – and had no one willing to make it count. Abandonment was the ultimate product of all these personality alliances Nines had learned to rely upon. Build bridges, he thought – hundreds of them – and some were bound to stand, even as a dozen wicker ones broke around you. It did not work that way in Los Angeles today. Build weak bridges – even a hundred – and sometimes, they all came crashing down when the earth shook.

Serena, typical Scepter, had quickly crossed-then-bulldozed all of hers; and shit, perhaps she's been smarter in that light. He doesn't know. Maybe there's not much else but these cracked-up little empires for all their kind.

The Seneschal cringes – not because she is surprised, but because this testimony only confirmed what LaCroix's Childe already knew. Intuition was a powerful machine. But so was impotence. "Yes. I don't care anymore."

"You don't _care_?"

"No," she says. "I don't."

"He would've let you take the fall for this, if it ever got out," Rodriguez shouts, unfounded suspicions meant to rattle, but ones that need no support to come true. Tree roots were cooked in the dirt. "Kuei-Jin bargains. Shit. I bet you anything. Would have been you running from his Sheriff instead of me. How far you think you might've made it?" he prompts, needling. "You wonder why he sent you up here with a lit match? You think he didn't know what we used this building for?"

"He told me it was a munitions stockpile."

"Hah! Half the truth, huh? Told you half of what you needed to know and sent your ass running up to burn." LaCroix's was a scheme so unoriginal and staple of their clan it failed to irk him. If Woeburne could not foresee these ploys – these blank lines of omitted information that hid death warrants – perhaps she didn't deserve to live, anyway. "Answer me one thing, if you even can. Where's all this heart come from, little soldier? Because that's what I don't understand. Can you explain it to me? Sent you right into a ditch. Why the fuck are you still protecting him?"

"He is my SIRE," the woman grinds, and her defense is a dark love, injustice fraying calm's cold edges. "And I imagine it's better somehow to be your martyr than his soldier, is that it? Fuck you, Anarch. You act so high and so mighty but I don't see why. How many marched to their death because you sent them? How many graves keep you afloat? That's survival! That's the great game, isn't it?"

"I gave you an out," he maintains, hesitating, wanting someone to believe it. London doesn't any more than the old Baron does. It's a sick king-of-the-hill game they play.

"Your outs all ended in tombstones. We can't change this. It doesn't matter."

Maybe it doesn't, but Nines refuses to let simple resignation stop him. Whether his goal is the hatching of another feeble plan or if the man merely wants to hurt her in a way that stings worse than lead, he is not sure. "I just want it to be clear between you and me," Rodriguez snarls, hawking out a cinder that lands inside his mouth. He can't get the taste out of it. "You realize what this is, don't you? You realize what you are to him at this point." He decides this for her so she cannot deny. "You're a sacrifice, Woeburne – no more, no less. Ordered you up here to do what – set a fire – and it brings this whole place down? He probably figured you'd die in the blast. What did it matter if it caught me, too?" The Anarch snorts because he cannot help it. This is a reality there is nothing to do but face. "A dead Seneschal means war. We're all dust after tonight. He'll pencil in your name on the Free-State crime list… whatever the fuck is left of it by now. Congratulations, Woeburne, you tenacious bitch," the Anarch bristles, spitting, fangs stretching. "Big fucking honor for you, I'm sure. You're a page in your Prince's personal history. A good Camarilla trooper, London. Saint de LaCroix. You're the shot heard 'round the motherfucking world. So I just wanted to make sure you really understood how important this is." She swallowed. "You realize, now, that your Prince's plan in bringing you here and propping you up was always to throw you to the wolves?"

"You think I don't?" Serena snapped, throat raw. Circles beneath both eyes darken and deepen as thirsty veins swell prominently around her temples, pulsing blue down the Ventrue's neck. "You ARE the wolves. I'm sure he meant for you to kill me. I'm sure you would; you're no better. Don't pretend you are. Don't waste your breath. You threw me first."

"Call a fucking press-conference. Your people SHOT mine," he thunders, and lets loose a bullet in Woeburne's general direction. It slams into rock. The sound is violent and soothing, futile though it might be. "Say whatever the fuck you want about my leadership, but you damn well better not prance around acting like this is our doing. This grudge is longer than you or me, bootlicker. You bluebloods started this war when you rolled in and smoked our kids in Long Beach. You made it clear what your intentions were when you set us up on that pier because you were too cowardly to do the job yourselves. What the hell did you expect? Fuck – you already killed everyone else. Grow a goddamn backbone, snake, and come finish what you started."

"Oh, give me a fucking break," London rails back, rattling. "You're so noble. You're so _right_."

"You patronizing me?" he snorts. "Go to hell, Camarilla."

"Fraud hero," Woeburne finishes. "You're no different. You're just as much of a tyrant; you only hide it with promises you know you can't keep. Fine. I betrayed you – so what?" the Seneschal snaps. She's got a hand over her breastbone to cover the biggest hole. She tries to bite back the way her lips curl and tremble, traitorously afraid at the end. Pierced lungs and emotion wreck Serena's elocution. The teeth inside that grimacing mouth are still so annoyingly white, small and well-made. "I never championed my pawns. I never made anyone love me. I never pretended to be anything apart from what I am. You are the worst kind of lie."

"You don't know me," he protests, flaring, reloading a nine-millimeter with one baleful snap. "You don't know a goddamn thing about this cause."

"Cause? Hah!" She choked on it. "What a joke! You're your _own_ fucking cause, Nines. I don't care what flags you fly; you're just as much of a puppet master as he is," Woeburne hollers so before he can interrupt. "Just as much a son-of-a-bitch. Jesus Christ! _'I don't know you?' _I know you better than they do!" the Seneschal cries, a jeer, preparing the last few shells she had. "You've given a knock for every one you've gotten, Brujah; you always enjoyed boasting about how you _earned_ all you have. You damned well earned this, too."

Nines's temper plunges low; his canines glare, calloused. "Don't you dare preach at me, you ignorant bitch. You have no clue what the fuck I have done to keep this State intact. Flounce into LA acting like you know gold from horseshit. Think you own the fucking world," the Anarch ruffs, voice warping like an exhaust pipe, mood inhuman. His face is wet. He does not know if it is blood or pain or the certainty of loss. "This is my Domain. This has always been MY Domain. You damn well better believe I will throw whoever the fuck I need to into a pit to keep it that way. You and all the Camarilla's whores just like you – you're all alike – nothing but spokes on a wheel as far as I'm concerned."

"Oh, I know. I knew that the second I saw you."

He bores into fire with charisma that does not work.

"So what now, Woeburne?" the beaten Brujah finally asks, sigh lackluster and damp – and for all his world-weariness, Nines's curiosity sounds sincere. His throat is thick and he cannot swallow or yell anymore. He's too tired to close his fists. There is no use; there is no honey or vinegar left for another fetter of lies. There is no one left to see his wet face or his dragging flag. "We kill each other? We burn up? You have all the answers. What happens to types like you and me once we been here?"

She wheezes it like release – a comfort from the void. It's strange and unsettling how right that seems to be. "Nothing. Nothing happens. Not to us, anymore. It's over."

"Does it have to be?" There's no real hope in Nines's voice when he asks this; it is more of a reflection, another false-out, a parallel of Sebastian LaCroix.

The question makes Serena feel like she could laugh on what's left of her curse. "It's had to be since you made your existence exclusive to mine."

And then: "Stop talking. I'm not listening to you anymore."

There is bitter admiration in the Baron's snort.

"You always have been such a goddamn hardhead, Woeburne."

"I don't hear you," she murmurs, green glazes over, and Serena Woeburne crutches the pistol in a crook of her weak white arm.

**x 03**

It has felt like hours since she stepped onto the crabgrass of Griffith Park. It has been no more than twenty-five minutes.

As the policies of Sebastian LaCroix had taught her, twenty-five minutes is long enough to change the world.

It has been only twenty-six – perhaps ten since that final detonation – when the Garou comes.

There was plenty to say to each other when Los Angeles's observatory went blazing into a pyre, bits of brick flying, palm trees sparking and then timbering to the ground. Dueling had created a black hole on Mt. Lee; or at least it seemed that way to those hunkered down upon it, passage marked by bullet count, smoke density, the expanding heat, and pints of blood leaked out onto fresh clay. Ventrue and Brujah had both lost several by this late stage. You couldn't smell it for all the toxins in the air. She couldn't, anyway. He knew it must have reeked _vampire_ to lupine noses, but assumed the fire, light and gas would ward them off longer than two shot Kindred could manage to keep their bodies held as flesh. It was why this mountain worked as a tenuous shelter. It was why the Camarilla did not send a task force storming up the cliffside, slinging flash-lit muzzles, mowing down frontlines with M60s. No one talked about it – an uncomfortable, wild subject easier ignored than addressed – but everyone knew. You do not raise your voice in these hills.

It was hard to hear and scent and hunt through all the bedlam, but that gutted building is a lodestar. Time had not really stopped – and eventually, something found them.

Ms. Woeburne wished this something could've been a firefighter or a helicopter toting water-bombs. Of course, it was neither. What parted the simmering undergrowth a half-mile away was not made of tire rubber. It was claw.

Claws attached to one ton of furious werewolf.

They freeze.

It is remarkable how fast a new threat can makes friends of enemies. Police intrusion shuts down gang feuds. Blitzes sedate civil unrest. Introducing a mastiff to a dogfight squeals pitbulls to a halt. In this same way, the emergence of a hungry Gnawer makes Baron and Seneschal forget these Jyhad knives they traded; they forget the need for cover and how they've shot each other's organs out. They will remember at some point – the pains and gore and betrayals will return, and with these memories so too will their hate. For now, however, whatever unkindness they feel is overshadowed by the thickened fur and yellow fangs and condensed weight of Crinos form. Kindred are designed, the Elders say, as opportunists – doomed to undercut their fellows to survive – and it was the wolves' unity that most imperiled Cainite cities in olden days. But with young blood pressed between flames and meat-rending monsters, deceptive nature will have to wait. Serena has been made a martyr, but she still thinks her life is worth more than Nines Rodriguez's death. Nines finds Serena Woeburne's cutting remarks and steel bullets less-terrifying than a rampaging Metis.

So they run.

"Scatter" is a more accurate word for this frenzied dash for the tree line – beyond which, it is no easier to move with your insides hanging out. Hot brush cracks against limbs. Thorns tear at distraught clothing, raking shallow cuts through skin. Stones twist ankles and low leaf clusters whip, showering embers, cooking softly. None of the damage is felt. There is no attempt to fight this beast; they throw themselves off the marl, fear making blood flow red again, adrenaline rush enabling both Kindred to disregard wounds that moments ago seemed fatal. It lunges with dripping maw and sickle-fingers from behind the visitor center. They run, horror too poignant to scream, deeper into the crackling woods.

Brujah and Ventrue do not linger close together. They fork quickly, dispersing when the savage thing hurtles in behind them, nails ripping off bark and jaws salivating around its growls. There is no hesitation. Aspens are flattened; smoldering sagebrush is ripped up. It is a blurry titan of black pelt and brutal forward momentum. This patch of forest is not ablaze yet, but smoke and sparks have already pushed inside the branches, a miasma that adds to confusion. It simmers the sounds of being chased down like jackrabbits. They split apart. Ms. Woeburne does not look back at the Garou; there is no time, and its presence is obvious, a cannonball of sharp keratin and enamel. Everything snaps beneath it. The world lurches forward.

Any moment, she will feel paws hit her back, hurricane-force – dewclaws piercing deep – saliva splattering – teeth in her spine – breaking it – the vertebrae will wishbone with a damp, sick _CRACK_ –!

The Seneschal absorbs a bramble to the face and tumbles messily beneath a hanging vine.

There is a buckled knee, a stumble – but she does not stop. Showering pebbles and leaflets and stems that lash and everything gives way to a sudden _plunge_; a deep rain-gulley yawns beneath this underwood. Serena is unable to avoid it – spills straight down into the ditch. Grunts are the only response she can make, edges bumped by smarting rocks and stick bunches that jut from dried mud. Five full tumbles at least; Fortitude is of no use. Her left arm, strength sucked from the bone, folds awkwardly and makes a sharp '_crik_!' It is broken at the wrist. This does not register with the panicked Ventrue. Her right palm heel lands in an anthill, and before Woeburne can process anything besides this need to _get away_, there are a dozen workers crawling up to mine the scabs. Cedar showers her suddenly. Something large and impossibly heavy sails overhead, tearing through growth, unable to stop. Serena curls reflexively. Both forearms clamp over her face. She still cannot find air enough to scream.

The werewolf overshoots her. Tripping has saved what is left of the vampire's life.

The Garou's toes dig into hard earth, skidding to a stop; its hulking body twists itself about, jowls snapping for dead flesh. She sees this creature for the first time atop that gulch. Its mitts are larger than her head. Its tail is snarled with thistle pods. Its stare is a mad, starving color, glistening with hate.

It has yellow eyes. The worst monsters always have clear, brilliant, sunlike yellow eyes.

And it looks after Woeburne, considering, snout plunging into the pronged buckthorn to sniff her out. The trench banks slide beneath its forepaws. Serena's brain secretes panic. The Ventrue can only spit back, a cub with a faulty hiss. Pressing herself into a dank hollow – beaver dens, perhaps, ceiling covered with roots – she unclips the Bowie knife from her sleeve. Her entire body is shaking, but this lifeline is easy to hold onto. She waits; she listens. Lupine breath is musty and rude. Its nose trowels through catch weed, snorting, saliva frothy white. It spatters chillingly close to her damaged hand. The vampire's skin glows sick enough to give her away. Claws dig; haunches shift; tail wags; foot pads tramp closer-

A clean blade slashes.

It does not connect – her depth perception is skewed by blood loss and fright – but this action seems to deter the enormous, dripping mouth. Wolf lips curl. The Seneschal rolls farther under these clustered briars, ignoring how they prick, how nerves throb up and down her humerus. Cold fingers wrap tightly around the hilt. Lung blood still runs between her bottom teeth. She will nail the monster's tongue to its gums and run if she can.

Her good fortune is her competitor's downfall; there is a rustle farther down that excites the werewolf's ears, head pulling high.

Brujah Celerity does not come easy on an empty stomach and terrified soul. Rodriguez has not stopped for her; he has no interest in turning back, for as the old adage went: you need not outrun the charging bear, but only outrun your friend. Their bear's concern, though, leaves this spitting, stiffening female, and twitches towards the other vampire, thirsty for Wyrmling death. Chase instinct makes a cowering leech uninteresting. Instead the Garou narrows in on the fleeing male, for now a better target. Nines vaults over a fallen oak. It follows him. Serena's throat is dry. The trees shake loudly after Anarch and werewolf. They eventually disappear in a tangle of black sky, exhaust and ferns.

One thought: run.

_RUN_.

The Ventrue, covered with dirt, crawls out of her thorny ditch belly-down – muck shoves deep beneath nails, crusts face, dots the Kindred's anemic pink gums. This is not a prideful courtroom creature any longer; she would pull herself through a mile of glass to escape this hell; she does not care. The politician is a soldier now, staggering to feet that do not feel wholly there. She doubles-back. Terror erodes every mission directive; gore paints her white button-down beneath the trench and failed Kevlar. Her boots clear a rocky brook. Corporal Woeburne, gaps still breaching the woman's breastbone, has no idea where this energy to move comes from. She cares only about leaving this place. Something heavy – another tree, perhaps – is torn asunder not far enough away. She does not slow down. Gunshots release – four rounds. She doesn't wait for them to hit. Nines screams behind her, and it is the most frightening sound Serena has ever heard; worse than Garou howls and gnashing jaws is the honesty of terror in the Brujah's cries. She does not look or hesitate. She runs until the boscage thins to grass. She runs past their large, dark blood stains; past the crackling observatory; past the spot where her first gun went flying lifelessly into tall weeds. She would run straight into the streets of Hollywood if she had any stamina left.

Because she doesn't, the district office hut will have to do.

Woeburne can see her cable car sitting in its dock from here – windows gleaning, side panels a tidy green, cute safety plaques indifferent to Griffith Park's disaster zone. Artificial lights look like a boon through the soot and smog. With the rims fading off her vision, Serena strives for it; this ropeway is a tacky, unsettling, viable means of survival. Wires hold firm. Tram metal does not smell of melting. The wooden porch has not yet caught fire, protected by a tin lean-to. It is solid. More importantly, it is _stable_, an adjective from a bygone world. Yes, this will have to do. LaCroix's Childe shoulders past two-dozen urges to collapse, finds a handful of vigor in her hopes, and sprints for the exit; it is an endeavor that almost drags her flat.

She is over shallow steps, through the threshold. She is at the unlocked turnstile.

Nines hurtles out of the woods behind her, skidding on gravel, face gripped in utter fear, silver eyes and wild as the black wolf that leaps at his shadow.

It cleaves through trees with tornadic ambition. It knocks them down.

London does not help him, if indeed she could have. The Ventrue's slick fingers are already crooked through chain-link, her shoe toe wedged into a fence panel, yards from escape. There's no room for mercy with perforated lungs and survival instinct at full capacity. Serena looks only long enough to glimpse those whopping claw marks laden onto his chest and ribs, four trademark bolts of red. She sees a plaster coat of blood, whites shining through. She sees horrible, humbling awe – blue insane with fright, a twister churning behind him. There is no calm or confidence or forethought. There is no superego or disarming human gloss. There is only terror unbridled, something less than man. She sees a dog about to die.

She pulls the Kahr out of her belt and fires it blindly, losing three last shots, not knowing if they land or spin uselessly into the night. She does not care who or what the bullets hit – merely that they tried. Effort is a failing gift now. This is the best she can offer.

But he is too far.

Serena cannot wait. So she does not wait.

She slams through the car doors, not bothering to shut them, and stamps one hand into the manual release until it starts – until the broken bones of her wrist are jutting at sick angles, and the aerial tram lurches its way down.

Wheels roll across the rope.

Locks engage.

The carriage clinks past the last bit of chain-link, outside this claustrophobic station, carport rails ejecting its flatbed as though nothing at all went wrong. And suddenly the world is open again. Sky breathes beyond the char marks, wind disperses smoke, stars peer through mist. Suddenly it's quiet, but for the roaring fire.

Serena Woeburne, shell-shocked, slides dumbly down a painted wall until she is sitting on the floor.

There is no opportunity for her to make the inevitable conclusion that Nines Rodriguez is dead on Mt. Lee; there is even less time to decide who is responsible for killing him. Seconds tick by. Her mouth flaps open and shut. She cannot hear beyond these persistent _ink-ink-ink_ pulley sounds of the ropeway. Ash and earth have turned the Ventrue's face a dim, foreboding grey. Aloe eyes are bloodshot and round. Every bit of clothing reeks of scalded suede. She moves in small, spastic convulsions – eyelids, fingers, the inside of one knee that tickles madly – her body is made of worn-down threads. It is nonsensically heavy. Drained and traumatized, there are still vain attempts to repair itself: Serena's thigh spits out its bullet. Her wounded arm wilts uselessly. Stroma knits together. She can feel ventilated air through her torso.

The park behind Seneschal LA burns in fiendish patches; it looks like the victim of a Phantom fleet. She is a survivor of an airstrike.

She won't think about separating Charlie from the casualties – is unable to find a reason or a plain divide. It doesn't matter, anyway. Her head pounds. Vision twirls in an odd way. Serena feels her ribs start to link themselves back together, calcium reassembling; it hurts so badly, anomie fades away. The Ventrue pitches forward onto her knee caps, wanting to throw up but holding no bile. This bodily pain she cannot expel. It feels like blow flies are devouring her from the inside. She puffs. She bends over, weight shifting sickly onto both forearms, elbows even against the barren floor; her brow sags, weakly touching cold metal. It is a stance of consternation and illness. She does not have the initiative to accept blame, nor does she have the time.

Eventually, the parking lot will reach up to meet her, sinking this cable car back into a city with teeth. She knows that. Swinging will stop. Movement will still. This stuffy, unglamorous box will open up and spit her out; it cannot hold the woman forever. Jyhad demands motion. You must move – pick a direction to advance. Static sharks sink and die. All Serena's elaborate plans are shaved to blank slots at the ground; but in this confined moment of space, they are still intact, suspended between two worlds. In this space, she is alive. She can feel a California breeze whistle directly against the outsides of her lungs, but she is alive. Fingertips gently cover swollen bullet holes. The Ventrue is about to tumble from her last cradle, and she has no delusions or brilliant schemes left; she is thankful just to hover at this point, progress paused, existing in suspension.

"_What now?"_ Woeburne does not have an answer.

_Get up. _

It is cheap advice worth a great deal to predators and young expendables. Fatigue more than mortal weighs her down. There is no shell tangling Serena's leg into nerve-knots anymore, yet the vampire is not sure she _can_ get up. Seconds, minutes and hours have no meaning; Serena does not know how long she has been curled here, ducking her face into blackness. It is still so hard to move. Nothing outside makes sense. Perhaps it will if she rests a little while longer. Only a little while?

_Get up. You have to._

'_What's the point?'_ she wants to ask, but cannot even think it; carnivore instinct does not permit despair. Her stuffing squirms. Veins buzz and wane like streetlights inside her hands.

_You are out of time._

She shuts and opens and shuts and opens her eyes.

She sees Nines Rodriguez bound down the station scaffold, boots clanging metal catwalk, and _jump_ into the air.

There is no hesitation; the throws himself over the wide gap between car and tram port, a desperate leap – trying to gain momentum – wood beams splintering as the Garou breaks through a cabin wall behind him. Chips shatter. Orange shingles have fallen off Griffith Park Visitor Center's roof and seem to explode. Ceramic splinters beneath enormous paws. Claws smear floor planks and wallpaper with Brujah blood. The Gnawer howls its frustration.

Nines jumped as though, at this point, the man did not wholly care if he could reach that hanging car or not.

He does.

His left sole connects first, thumping hard into the coach side, threatening to knock it askew. There is no traction. Both fists are next – and they shatter window glass, uncaring towards the cuts, grabbing tightly to a tin pane. It slices into his palms. He does not care. Finger bones are bare beneath their crude rings and he does not care or feel them. Serena screams when the entire carriage bucks high, as though it might pop neatly off that cable; she is peppered with shards. Right now, Nines could not possibly care about her.

Wolf incisors have torn a bolt of cloth and skin from the Anarch's side, bearing three ribs, sallow hooks under the moon. A powerful bite has crunched off one protective vambrace. There is monster fur glued to his jaw, hands, boot, stuck between his teeth. It mingles with soot and ash burns. Who knows how many of the Baron's bones are broken? Two fang marks have devastated a cheekbone. A chunk of deltoid is missing from his right shoulder. She swears to see light through the Brujah's stomach, filtered through meat so badly riddled that it is hard to tell flesh from tattered leather. His eyes are circular and colorless. He shakes unabashedly. Blood drowns him – face and form and dark, disheveled hair. He looks like an animal washed up in a flood.

It looks as though that Metis has picked up the wolf-Prince and shaken like a malamute with a chicken fox.

The Ventrue swallows thickly, chokes up another blood clot, and makes her muscles work again; she is blinking in the car's far corner, not yet concluding that his survival is a terrible thing. Another five seconds and Woeburne thinks he might have painted the gorge a mile down. Serena would refuse no Kindred now. She would have reached her arm to a Sabbat whelp if it meant not being left alone with this broiling cliff and its Cerberus. Nines Rodriguez is a better option. Moving aside – unwilling to actually touch the Anarch – she wrenches back a window safety shutter so that he might climb in, too afraid of plummeting to unbolt those double-doors. They will kill each other when the asphalt is firm beneath their feet; for now, Gaia's enemies are friends.

"Get in," London orders, the bar creaking in her unbroken hand, hating how lopsided his weight made them.

It does not immediately dawn upon her that Nines cannot hear the Seneschal's commands. The blood in his ears deafens him; shock makes these words, peaceful as they are, gibberish at the edge of his attention. He does not even look at her. He clings to the outside of a cable car and they watch the Garou snarl.

Angry that tonight's catch is lost, enraged over loss of its territory, the werewolf grinds a dozen molars. It stomps. Long ears lay stiff against the immense lupine skull; the creature roars its provocation, fists hammering floorboards. There are slivers of plywood embedded in its hide. There are small leech bites stinging over its mitts, each the size of Rodriguez's mouth; patches of hair have been shot away or scraped off or tugged out. The smoke of Mt. Lee has matted it from snout to tail-tip. It is furious. It stares at them with ravenous eyes.

It crouches.

"Oh, no," Nines stutters, pale white, crunching on the side of the car. "No, no, NO-"

Serena wants to push him off or pull him in – anything to deter this death – but she cannot. The Ventrue can do nothing. It has decided. And she is unable to scream before the werewolf pounces – a mammoth, growling mass – that reaches for revenge and makes a martyr of itself.

The world punches inwards.

They fall far.

**x 000**


	75. Ex Oblivione

**Ex Oblivione**

In the stomach of Los Angeles, Griffith Park burns, and the revolution ends.

Downtown, the city is blustery and sluggish to react. Kine crowd public television screens on their way from offices and clubs. Midnight news reports tout reels of helicopter pilots; of heroic firemen spraying arcs of water, jets that spout blue and rain upon the pines in droplets. They sparkle beautifully with white-red ash. They turn the tyrant flames to steam and tar pits, and the revolution ends.

Somewhere miles away, human government discusses the possibility of terrorist agendas in California. Speeches are written. Damage control is planned. They come to no conclusions, and the revolution ends.

A fist smashes through the splintered window of a cable car, and the revolution ends.

Sebastian LaCroix throws his full glass into a wall when he hears the Sheriff is dead, comforted only by watching those pale bluffs smolder black. Shards stick in servants' hands as they scurry to clean up his mess. It is quiet in the penthouse. Crimson dribbles thickly down gold wallpaper, and the revolution ends.

Lily and E.'s sweat browns the backseat of their rental car; Oregon winter is snowy and cold, and the revolution ends.

One Kindred climbs out of gnarled wreckage at the bottom of these hills, metal shot into its thighs, arteries split, ripped from heel to crown, and the revolution ends.

Isaac Abrams waits in Hollywood with crossed arms, a pose that does not ward off his impending death. He has no delusions. He has played the gilded game too long; Jyhad is a rigged Russian roulette. It is predictably unpredictable; reliably malicious. Politically paralyzed, the Baron watches his Childer fidget, belt shrinking around this Domain – he made their choice with apathy, and the revolution ends.

Therese Voerman kicks _The Asylum_'s bathroom door five times before she gives up, exasperated, and locks her cowering sister under deadbolt-and-chain. Minutes later, Jeanette is covering both ears in their porcelain tub, screaming obscenities through cherrywood. The apartment is empty, and the revolution ends.

Mira Giovanni, sarcophagus conspirator, watches betrayal unfurl in LA from a two-thousand-dollar armchair lined with chintz. It is at this moment she first begins to fear the Prince's ambition, and the revolution ends.

The Kindred pulls itself through bramble bushes, staggering, unable to see and unable to die, fumbling hands dousing tree trunks with blood. Beams and coat stitching hold its body together; willpower alone makes the dead joints move. Its dark trail is easy to follow back through the sycamores to where the revolution ends.

Three Sabbat footmen, stragglers from a dead Ductus's pack, are standing in a shadow of Los Feliz; they gape as mountainsides roar, and the revolution ends.

Chinatown is wroth with a broken bargain, abetting Western lords with no payment and gaining no insight into the coveted Cainite artifact. Wong Ho feels its anger rise in _The Red Dragon Restaurant_, though he does not understand why. Ming-Xiao will not regret this gambit for long, she swears, and the revolution ends.

In a deserted stretch of side-street, _The Last Round_ is now a condemned, bulldozed building zone; its dog-ears and rough edges have all been plowed flat. Jack spooks off some Malkavian prick who attempts to raid the den rubble, does not weep for Nines Rodriguez, and plies his rebel plots even while this revolution ends.

Christie does not know whether to put her hands over her mouth or through a brick wall when she hears the news. They are twelve steps off an inbound train from San Francisco and have waded into an open oven. Deacon watches his Sire become a renegade too young, and as the Anarch exodus from Los Angeles begins, the revolution ends.

A Garou's corpse smolders in six pieces; its blood is acid, kills the grass, and the revolution ends.

The observatory parking lot boasts only bare asphalt now. There is no idling Jaguar squeezed neatly between chalk lines. Maribeth Gutierrez clicks its blinkers off in Venture Tower's garage, promotions on her mind, and the revolution ends.

The Kindred hefts itself into a pickup truck's unlocked cockpit, blood slathering leather seats, praying for a key. It's there. It turns inside the ignition, Heimlichs the engine, releases a guttural warmth. Tires spit gravel and earth, and the revolution ends.

Maximillian Strauss holds the telephone in one waxy, powerful hand, two digits away from dialing Sebastian LaCroix. Yet when his apprentice speaks of disaster on Mt. Lee – rushed reports from a grim-faced and authoritarian young warlock – the Regent pauses. Precision bombs are too destructive to be mundane, he knows. He sets down the receiver, and the revolution ends.

"I know exactly who's behind this," Beckett remarks from the Chantry couch. Strauss listens, and the revolution ends.

The revolution ends with city lights blaring through a cracked windshield, forking into dimmed green eyes, one boot sole punching down a gas pedal.

Serena didn't know where she was going.

She just went.


	76. Sharpening the Spear

**Sharpening the Spear**

There are three things in the dashboard of Nines Rodriguez's truck: a loaded handgun, carton of cigarettes, and a cased CD.

Serena slid the first into her neckline and tucked the obvious third tightly inside one jacket pocket, wedged securely above two broken ribs. She snatched a spent, wrinkled blood pouch from beneath his passenger seat, tore its seam, and licked the plastic. She let it drop after a few humiliating moments, tongue lapping stupid and flat against cold packaging, disappointed, taste buds barely pricking with that signature coppery tang. She gulped, hating the throbbing down her throat – how this car reeks of its owner. She felt the engine's rumble travel across vehicle metal; through thin leather wheel skin; and into the palms of her white, white hands.

She glanced down this deserted dirt cul-de-sac, Griffith Park still burning in the distance, a dead policewoman drained to the bone in her dark backseat.

Ms. Woeburne could not bear to look at the murdered kine, eyes bulging like bloated fruit, lips cracked blue, its face sunken tight and lifeless against sharp ridges of skull. Yet the Ventrue had known she would kill this human before her teeth sunk into that waiting artery. Homicide was in the way Serena's mouth had watered like a dumb, rabid dog's; in the way fine hair flared down the notches of her spine; within seizing throat muscles. Her hunger swelled and crested its moorings in a heartbeat. Poor, unlucky sergeant… left understaffed and scanning for fire-gawkers. She must have spotted the weakened vampire slouched sidelong in this dirty truck – glimpsed blood sheen in a splintered windshield – and bolted over to make sure the girl inside was not slumped over dead. One knuckle rap against glass, a flashlight beam, and the Seneschal had lurched awake with distended fangs to pounce through her driver-side window. Canines plunged deep before the human could react. Forward momentum knocked both females to the ground; the slavering, beastly bitch had bitten the upstanding patrolman's gullet shut, swigging her empty in a series of shameless, covetous drinks. She heard a heart stop, felt the gloves that curled angrily in crusted brunette loosen. She could not bring herself to care in the wake of thirst that lit up these most primeval thoughts. Serena had sat up on cool, untouched grass, straddling a fresh cadaver, and winced through the cramps that bombarded her gut.

Everything had fallen apart.

She had stripped the woman of her padded uniform – anesthetized, but tinged by the foretaste of guilt. Then she stripped herself, shivering naked under a smoky moon, dented chest horrific, naval smeared with ash, and zipped up in these crisp black city clothes. The ghost of authority hung about them, potent enough to make this beaten corporal sob dryly for an old life she had lost. They smelled like locker rooms, polish and floral deodorant. Serena climbed back into Nines's truck with a belly full of warm, indigestible fluid, and the painful spasms that foreshadowed sickness. But restored Fortitude reduced the meaty craters in her body to dark, ebbing, stinging depressions. She held together. It would have to do.

Shell-shock did not wear off with a desperate, unsubstantial meal; stunted thoughts did not chill themselves to strategy. But her mind was her own again, and that was enough.

Still staggering with the afterbirth of all she had just done, mountainside and desolate road – not knowing what else to do with it – Woeburne hauled her prey's frigid body in. Its stare was glossy and mortal; its arms splayed, legs heavy. She could not bear it. She found a greasy towel shoved into a corner of Rodriguez's flatbed, shook it out, and tossed grey cotton over the dead woman.

There was another pistol strapped to her idling motorbike, and Serena took that, too.

She drove on with bloodshot eyes fixed to the digital clock: _11:14_. Daylight could not come soon enough. Ms. Woeburne was not premeditating suicide; she had no particular destination in mind, none of her own hideouts stuffed with contraband weapons and last-resort bombs. She knew only that the rising sun meant safety from Prince LaCroix… for a few hours, at least.

Someone would be dogging for this truck, Serena realized distantly, unable to make herself leave it. There was not much difference between those who'd shoot for Nines Rodriguez or a limping Seneschal gone expired. Shotgun shells didn't care whose brains they splattered; remaining in Los Angeles guaranteed Final Death. She needed gas. She needed money for gas. She needed a shovel to dig into shelter, more ammunition, a way to feed on proper stock before her veins rejected this subpar repast. The Ventrue needed a dozen things right now, small but crucial practicalities to being a refugee – something Brujah were far better accustomed to. Her greatest need of them all was speed. She had to run. It was a vague, impossible chance, but it was her only one. Denial was deadly, now, and useless as her attempts to stop up bullet wounds with Griffith Park weeds. If Mr. LaCroix found out his Childe was still alive, she would not outlast the night. Sebastian needed her dead.

_Sebastian_ – when she said the name aloud, an unconscious action, Serena's guts twisted and threatened to expel bad blood all over her windshield.

It came out a pining whimper instead of a curse, and it clenched the woman's hands tightly around Rodriguez's steering wheel. For all this – _"After all that,"_ Nines had shouted, caught between rage and a laugh – there was still a part of Ms. Woeburne that strove to fulfill whatever her Sire required. It was the same sensation a wildebeest feels with its neck in a lion's jowls; it was the lull of cool lethargy after adrenaline. It told her there was no point. There was no outmaneuvering an Elder, and no evidence the Childe actually should… for surely he knew better. Her life is a small price. She could relax, toe the brake, allow this all to wash overhead and spit her out however it may. She could drive this choking vehicle to a beachfront somewhere and wait out the dawn. She could reach beneath her vest, take that fragile CD into her hands, and _snap_! – it would all be over. Something must have been wrong in the most basic order of things if so little as saying his name caused her acute physical pain. She started this, but it could end so easily, and there was comfort in the finality of failure.

If she had been born Brujah – if she had been cannon-fodder with a love-icon instead of a mentor – Ms. Woeburne figured she might well have done it.

Sebastian LaCroix taught her more than he'd known or intended.

So it was a drive down into West Hollywood, tires spraying dirt and then gravel before reaching the smooth city asphalt, temples panging. There was no time to think anything through. She screeched into the nearest station, a greasy Shell Gas, and filled her tank with sixty-dollars-worth of Dominate. There was no Camarilla execution spilling into the convenience aisles. Ms. Woeburne – trying to keep both hands steady with a corpse in the backseat and a badge on her breastbone – threw up the first batch of inferior blood into a dingy sink, splashed herself clean, and assaulted an unlucky restroom guest for tonight's second course. She left hurriedly, ignoring a neutral "goodnight, officer" from the attendant. She wiped plasma off leather seats with a handful of paper napkins.

Serena had driven away and was creeping slowly up a residential street – fretting over the decision to steal another car, dump this rigid body, or speed away immediately – when Beckett intercepted her.

Her heart plunged, and then rammed itself in the back of Ms. Woeburne's throat.

"Beckett!" she barked, stared only a moment, and ripped Nines's handgun from her vest with a horrible expression.

"This would be _'shoot first; ask questions later_?' Not the best strategy for a brand new outlaw. Regardless, there's really no time to talk about it here," the Gangrel said, silvery wolf disassembling in a blur of stretching color and unraveling supernatural movement. Hands, teeth, mandarin eyes – the sight of a fellow predator in this innocuous quiet made her blood congeal and hairs rack to their tippy-toes. They stood still there on the darkened avenue, streetlights spaced too far apart for comfort. Moonlight glanced off the brim of his hat. The woman who should have been dead clung to an oversized pistol she had pointed at him through one truck window. Her knuckles were wildly sore, but the reaction had been instinct as much as it had been a defensive act; the need to expect danger had been ingrained into her long before this night. It did not matter so much that Serena knew this Kindred could kill her without batting an eyelash, loaded Eagle or not. She could stamp into her accelerator and he would evade, mere feet away from the hood. Her wrists felt heavy, and even after an assault did not come, accepting safety from another vampire was difficult. The Ventrue exhaled through her nose. She rubbed a thumb against the rubbery .50 grip; her single hand barely fit around it. A beast had run upon her down this alleyway, snout and gleaning canines conjuring fresh horrors of Garou attacks… and now Beckett blinked from the tarmac without patience, relief or concern – coat listless, gaze orange and staid, expression unnervingly vague.

She swallowed the ball of tacks in her throat. Grabbing door handle and gun was all this old Camarilla lapdog could do. "I don't want to do this. Don't come any closer."

"Don't dream you could stop me. I'm not in the mood for theatrics – and I'd say you, young one, don't have enough friends in this world to open fire on those few of us left."

The word threatened to make Woeburne stupid again; it changed the sight of Beckett from a potential hostile to a character with personality and face. That this face was a familiar, independent and possibly helpful one did no better for the cornered Seneschal's nerves; that this person had provided assistance in the past should have meant nothing to a wise victim of Jyhad. That she liked him was an especially precarious memory... and the dumb hope that twisted in Serena's gut took her hazardously close to feeling humanity again.

If she felt, she would have to relive – to allow and find a meaning in tonight – and _that_ would kill her even if Sebastian's schemes did not.

"How can I—?"

"That I haven't slaughtered you yet you should take as a good sign." Interruption and cleverness were the extent of Beckett's reassurances. Yet the Elder was not pulling her leg with snide comments. He was alarmingly, pointedly serious.

Resisting was useless. The Ventrue realize that. Nothing but dialogue could prevent a wounded Childe from being torn through the windshield with shredded throat; if the Gangrel desired Ms. Woeburne's death, he'd have it with or without her consent. She slackened. Serena did not know if there was a name for this feeling of reckless optimism and helplessness. God, she won't think about any of it: not about the way werewolf paws slammed into one side of cable car, how momentum made it feel like they lurched _up_ before falling down, how her body lifted weightlessly off the floor, how Nines was simply gone – just _gone_, plucked off in one instant, without any more blood or screaming or broken ribs. She won't think about the deafening sound of being alone when everything _plunged_ – left tumbling by herself inside punching, wrenching metal, the shattering glass, tree limbs snapping off, the rocks bursting through that rolling carriage. She won't think about lying beneath the wooden bench when it all stopped, crunched into herself at Mt. Lee's base, unable to see anything. She won't ever think about how she had _pulled rusted metal beams out of her gut, pelvis and legs with fingers that had no nails_, and stood there shivering at the bottom of Griffith Park, barely aware of who she was any longer.

"I don't… What do you want from me?" Woeburne demanded – much as LaCroix's Childe could manage to 'demand' anything in her current sorts. It sounded strangled. Rodriguez's battered muffler was gargling in the background.

"I'm not here to rescue anyone. I suppose I could take what I need and leave if you'd really like, but then my findings run the risk of inaccuracy… and I doubt you'd last another hour alone."

"No," Serena choked, stammering, face betraying her desperation and elbows too numb to lower the weapon. "No. Don't leave. Please. I don't think I want that. I'm glad you're… I want you here. I need help. _Something_. But I have to know why. You have no idea what's happened – tonight. To me," she sputtered, honesty that struck him like maudlin whimpering. "I have to know what's happening."

Beckett was not cruel. But he was too old for sympathy.

The Gangrel rounded her grumbling car. "I don't think that's really the question to ask, but if I must repeat myself: we don't have the opportunity to discuss it here. You are in an extremely perilous position, child. You are also a witness. The only one, in fact… and though we are few and far between, these nights, some of us do have obligations that go beyond Party lines. I want the truth. I want _proof_ of the truth. And so, _I _am here to intercept you before you do anything unfortunately Ventrue." And, ignoring Serena's aim – looking oddly, disturbingly harried – Beckett pulled open the dented passenger door and sat himself inside. She could only stare with a sagging pistol. He said nothing of the damp upholstery, broken passenger window or backseat corpse – if, indeed, these little fine points mattered much to him. He only clipped a GPS to the sun-flap, instruction enough. "I'm sure you already know you look like hell."

His sarcasm in the face of her death made Seneschal Woeburne want to throw both hands off this steering wheel and cry like a small, frustrated toddler. She said: "I have nowhere to go. Where can I go? I need to get rid of this truck; it's-"

"Don't waste the very little chance you have obsessing over details, young one. Drive; we are going to a Chantry office in Glendale, not far away. Someone will take care of it when we arrive. You'll be safe there… for the time being."

_To Glendale? _Back to the politicians, the vultures, the city where her survival prospects were as flimsy as her cardboard authority? It made her bones shake. Five toes pressed hard into the brake pedal, though they had gone nowhere; forearms squeezed against her breastbone. Her shins were like jelly. Feet lost their feeling inside boots. She kept stepping down, manic, each push weaker and sloppier than the last. She wasn't going anywhere – but she didn't seem to be stopping. "No. I can't do that. I won't. I'm going to leave Los Angeles. I don't want-"

Beckett twisted about to look at her; his regard was frank and bitterly bare. "Do you really imagine what you _want_ matters at all?"

She sat still.

"They're going to kill me," Serena told him – as bluntly as an anchorman, fingers hooked heavily through the wheel.

Beckett adjusted his lapels.

"I'm sure someone will one day," he agreed. "But it won't be the Tremere tonight."

His word would have to suffice. Her name was a dangerous one, but Ms. Woeburne pushed in the clutch and drove, wracking towards Glendale. There was no one and nowhere else to be.

**II.**

It was thirty minutes later that Serena found herself sitting forward on red velvet, sofa buttons gouging into the backs of her legs, palm heels pressed into both eye sockets as she struggled to listen while Beckett and Maximillian Strauss spoke sabotage.

This townhouse den was suffocating not in its wealth, though the lucrative nature of being a blood-witch was certainly apparent – Glendale's Haven felt far heavier in its courtesy. There were no foolish courtroom gestures; these ensorcelled Tremere did not demand Toreador tributes in grandiose Baron Abrams fashion, nor did they expect kowtows or request loyalty pledges. The Regent had only inclined his head respectfully, bidding their witness make herself at home. It was a hollow offer; she was lead to a couch, surrounded by dark mahogany and wallpaper checkered in funereal blue, lit by lanterns that smelled powerfully of gas. Decaying book paper and wax dominated all.

When Serena first entered this place, nearly tripping over an iron umbrella rack and fighting hard not to latch onto Beckett's coat train like some blubbering neonate, strange energy peaked her nerves. Narrow wooden corridors and pull-down stairwell hatches were claustrophobic. There was something like sawdust in the air. Faceless doors remained locked and modest. China vases crowded display shelves between curious statuettes, pewter gargoyles gathering dust. There was a plumed ostrich fan hanging on the far wall. Silence persisted, disturbed only by the echoing clicks of shoes upon floorboards… though it was impossible to know how many vampires dwelled within. She saw no others. But she felt they were there. Flamboyant lace curtains dragged ground polished in lemon cleanser, a weird fusion of old and modern. There was nothing overtly _unwell_ with the building. All things Chantry, however, carried with them an odd twinge of the supernatural… and she detected it beyond this Victorian décor: a taste of oddness infused within bizarre plush, lamp oil, wet ink, ancient tomes and what smoldered like white sage.

Ms. Woeburne felt that she was pausing in a coffin.

The obsolete Seneschal told them everything. She had nothing to safe-keep any longer, no power-holdings or promotion promises… what else lingered for a martyr who survived? Sebastian LaCroix's Childe was prepared to die atop that mountain because there had been no other option, but having bled out and fallen down it, there remained only the slim chance at living long enough to abandon this tarnished empire. She did all he demanded of her. She did it without question and without fault. If this would be enough to win her life back was a debatable point, but Ms. Woeburne had made herself shake the Regent's argyriac hand, passed him that coveted CD, and explained. The woman gave no more than was necessary. She provided answers only when asked – most of them of the yes/no variety – but she did not lie. There was no face-saving by this eleventh hour; either the Prince would dispose of her, or Strauss's magicked wing would grant protection until Serena's uses were no more. They had driven her truck into storage the moment it pulled up in that immaculate driveway, blacktop twinkling with granite. They had locked away evidence via ancillae who had the precision of agents but the loyalty of warlocks. Beckett was right. When she died, a spent corporate soldier, it would not truly matter why or whose gun did the deed. Exhausted Kindred could hope solely to postpone their own ends for as long as was possible… which seemed, given tonight, not likely a great deal of time.

It all had a profound dizzying effect on the Ventrue – who forgot protocol and manners and tempered speech and simply hunkered over, head pounding, trying not to retch.

"_You can trust I won't abuse your confidence, Ms. Woeburne. My only interests are the betterment of my clan and the stability of the Camarilla; now, that means securing this Ankaran Sarcophagus,"_ Maximillian had assured her, sober and deeply polite; the paternal bass of his voice would have been comforting, had not Serena already learned the folly of trusting a voice. Black eyes watched her from behind their owlish, circular spectacles. Cleanliness, evenness and civility were in the off-color arches of Regent LA's forehead; his brows were furrowed and scalp bare, propositions attempting to sound just as cultured as the man's general appearance. Wizened wizards need not look intimidating to _be_ intimidating, however. She thanked him, but her tongue was vinegar. The Gangrel ruminated from a nearby lounge chair while Strauss stood, patient (or, at least, projecting patience); his crimson coat gleaned with its back to an inanimate fireplace. This first guarantee had merit, true – but the next promise was worthless. _"Consider our home a refuge, for the time being. You need not fear Jyhad scheming within these walls."_

And that was the last he said to her directly for some time, sliding that unmarked CD into an idling desk computer and thumbing through files, the professor observing over one shoulder. Ms. Woeburne waited. He read for minutes that seemed to stretch into oblivion.

Nines had told Serena a hundred half-truths, bluffs and tall tales – but this time, he had not lied. He had not lied about the content of these files or his rival's intuition. She had seen right through her Prince.

"Ah. Yes. This confirms what you suspected, Beckett. It is, of course," the Tremere decided, rising, chair legs screeching backwards against hardwood, "not enough for a conviction. But I doubt we have any need to question the Prince's motives… or, it seems, his allegiances." Maximillian adjusted his glasses on a prominent, gently hooked nose. He slowly shook his head. "I must admit: while it disappoints me to hear Sebastian LaCroix is involved in this, I am not surprised. His contact with me has been increasingly unreliable as of late. But to appeal to a Kuei-Jin…"

The historian's thin mouth tugged downwards, an expression tripped up somewhere halfway from ambivalence to worry. He strode gradually across the chamber, boot toes tapping the floor, paces unhurried but tense. In their discussion of Los Angeles's magistrate, they had quite dismissed his protégé, who sat by herself in the room's center. She felt torn – vacillating between thoughtless compulsions to defend her Sire and weak-kneed urges to cover both ears, as though their adult conversation wasn't meant for eavesdropping children. "Be that as it may. You know that politics aren't my concern, Strauss. I'm far more troubled by what _actually_ waits within that sarcophagus – regardless of what your Prince thinks it is."

"Yes, I know. I apologize, friend; I was only thinking out loud. But perhaps the two are interconnected, as is my fear. If what you say is true, and LaCroix hopes to unbox a-"

The hour's rare sight: a Regent interrupted. "It's no use wondering about," Beckett cut in, shrugging to cloak his anxiety. Next to his companion's regal speech, the Gangrel sounded cattish and sulky. "We can't possibly know from here."

Maximillian conceded with a nod. "True. But as much as I would like to believe we need never find out, particularly not on the Prince's agenda… I don't underestimate his ambition. Even if there is no one in Venture Tower capable of reading Dr. Johansen's notes, I fear it is only a matter of time before Sebastian finds another way. And I especially fear this will come to pass sooner rather than later. He has always been conniving, but lately has grown fierce, as well."

"Oh, I am well aware of the Prince's 'ferocity.' You don't have to tell me that. You need only look at what happened to poor Ingvar."

"That was a tragedy that should have been avoided. Still, I wonder precisely what it was that pushed LaCroix into contacting Ming-Xiao. Or, for that matter, why she even took the time to listen. I somehow doubt it was honeyed words or a handsome face." The Tremere's heavy brows arched, critical. He folded both arms, deceptively massive, mulling over this power-play. "What bargaining chip did he wave that a Cathayan priestess would find interesting? They are not generally fans of our more 'colorful' legends – a trait you both share, Beckett. But it seems there is something captivating about this particular artifact. Did he hire foreign mercenaries with promises of sharing the sarcophagus's boons, do you suppose?"

Beckett scoffed, rolling narrowed eyes and as he peered at a charcoal landscape. Black aspens stood slim and stoic upon the smudged parchment. Black hair looked azure beneath a mellow paper lamp. That well-loved akubra had been tossed onto the coffee table, and Serena fixed her wandering gaze at it, tracing a century of dust and dents. She would never be that old – never reach that distinguished, distilled age. She could not conceive of it. She was not that sort of creature. Her palms were coating cold, temples clammy, insides squirming. A Ventrue-child was short-lived. A Ventrue, these nights, was too mundane. "Only to break their deal in the end, anyway. Not that it paid much for either side. I don't picture Sebastian _or_ Mistress Xiao as being very pleased when Johansen's notes and key yield nothing. And they won't. Those two don't have a minute of patience between them."

Strauss sighed. "I hope it remains that way, my friend. I truly do."

They paused a moment, disturbed within themselves, and then:

"But I know you echo my qualms, even if your motives are different. Patience is sometimes no match for frustration. That a man with a hubris as large as his could stoop to entreating that vain, supercilious creature… and all this with Chinatown poking at our gates. It doesn't bode well," the Regent noted. Beckett rubbed a finger along his chin – petulant, displeased, but in silent agreement. "Perhaps my shadow – and that of our superiors – is too uncomfortably tall for our resident _jeune_ _roi_'s tastes."

"No offense," Beckett chimed in, an afterthought for Ms. Woeburne's benefit. She appreciated acknowledgement, but at present – hands clutching her bruised, tender thigh – Strauss could've said "kill the witness" and Serena wouldn't have moved.

The brief wake in their conversation – and perhaps this was its goal, one sharp little jerk to a mute Seneschal – made Maximillian remember her. Turning, the Tremere blinked at their child-king's Childe, settling a hand upon his vest pocket in apology. "You will forgive me for being frank with my opinions, madam. I hope you know how gratified I am to see you behave so sensibly about this. You have never given me reason to doubt you before, in our short time of acquaintance, but surely you realize many of your elders felt… unease about your patronage. Legacy Sebastian LaCroix is hardly an easy sale in this city." He did not exaggerate. Untested, unpresented, and largely unknown until her promotion to Seneschal; it was unlikely the Primogen would ever bend knee to this woman. Not without more renown, and not with such close proximity to their zealous Prince. "When Beckett mentioned your name, I was dubious, but I applaud your integrity. To see you operate outside of LaCroix's arm speaks well of your devotion to the Camarilla."

Serena did not care too badly about the Camarilla at this low point in her life. She made herself thank him, respectful, but the Ventrue bit into her lips.

It was enough for Strauss, though, who returned to his associate undaunted. "What of the Anarchs?" he pondered. "I first suspected they were responsible for your colleague's murder, Beckett – last-ditch act of desperation against our Prince. But now I see I was mistaken. Do we have a comment from Nines Rodriguez? He could be an unlikely ally in this; I will contest the Hunt immediately once I hear his motives."

Serena opened her mouth to respond, stopped short, grabbed her stomach – there was one loud, cramping, embarrassing gurgle.

Beckett nonchalantly handed her a waste basket.

Seneschal Woeburne bent over the sofa arm, stuck her face in the bucket, and heaved grotty blood until her ribs ached.

The Ventrue's world narrowed to the cool, dark confines of this sad little trash pail. She hurled and coughed and choked, brown hair tendrils sticking to her cheekbones, gullet clenching. Her face was fire-hot. Disgrace and pain flared through her from core to scalp. There was no looking back over the rim, shame shielded by cheap pink Walmart plastic and her own mess. Blood coated the bottom, soaking into crinkled loose-leaf. Droplets clung to the sides, rolling down, gathering in a tilted pool. Pencil shavings floated. It smelled of sour kine, gunsmoke, of vomit and herself.

It took Serena several minutes until these spasms stopped, warmth draining from her gut and propelling up the vampire's chest. Nails sunk down. Her empty belly crunched into itself. Finally able to speak, Woeburne gave one last series of resentful, dainty, pitiable spits, stringy red saliva-lines breaking from the tip of her nose, mouth forming difficult words. "He's dead," she managed, curt and clinical as a sick woman could. She spat out another mouthful. Her throat muscles squeezed so tightly, it stung Ms. Woeburne's teeth and gums.

"What?" The Regent's startled reply was muffled by close quarters and the artificial shade of her bucket.

"Nines Rodriguez is dead," she panted, sounding strict through the taste of gasoline and dead cop in her pipes.

"Young one… are you certain?"

"I am." It was an officer's report, famously stern. "I saw it. I'm sure." And it was all Serena could say before retching again, for foul blood and another ripping disgust she could not define.

There was a burn coming from somewhere over the Ventrue's breast. Still cradling the bucket, she pulled a gun out of her shirt and laid it down, afraid that vengeful metal would sear at hearing its lost master's name. No one noticed. It sat there, dead on the couch beside her, radiating malice.

She put a throw-pillow over it. It did not help. She threw up again. It did not help, either.

"So he _was_ hiding in Griffith Park, then. And the series of events begins to make sense. To call a Blood Hunt upon a Free-State figurehead is no small thing, and the evidence behind that Hunt was debatable, at best. _Hmm_. I should have gone with my first instinct," he regretted, grim hindsight. "I did not think Mr. Rodriguez would simply murder a Camarilla follower, so suddenly and apparently without motive. Far more likely the Prince framed him for Joelle Lefevre, an attempt to destroy those who might loudly oppose him in future nights. I am not anxious for the Anarch community to find out." She said nothing to dissuade him; her hand was still stuck too deep in this honey pot. A curl of words taken out-of-context, and wary Harpies might blame the persistent Seneschal for this execution instead. True or false, she would not leave sticky fingerprints over Joelle's death. The trail linking her to Nines – and him to that bloody apartment – was too fresh.

Funny, she thought… that credit for killing a man could bring her either corporal punishment, or the company fame needed to govern monsters. It occurred to Ms. Woeburne that this all could shape her into a deputy-hero, another rising government star, riding home beneath dissenter gunfire with a bandit-lord's head in her rucksack. It could just as easily spoil into homicide charges; they could buck her to his leftover mob and let grief run its course. There was so little room between the two. It all depended on what his legend would be.

And Serena? She could still close her eyes and see werewolf teeth, claw marks – the horrible way an Anarch Baron's face looked _running away_, screaming, pride cracked, with no lie to keep him alive.

The Camarilla was limited by its civility; no death they dreamt up could be worse than his. Politics paled to that old, animal fear of what lurked outside the city lights.

She opened her eyes quickly.

Maximillian sighed once more in his stately sitting room – heavier – head shaking into an immense blue palm. Rings made of gold and obsidian glimmered on urbane hands that could easily crush her neck. "So Sebastian LaCroix is not only treasonous in his alliances, but a war criminal, as well. Grave tidings. And did you…" He looked directly – startlingly – at Ms. Woeburne. "Did you kill him?"

"There was a fire," she said. Serena did not know.

Strauss stared at her.

"We noticed," Beckett remarked of her stupid answer. There had been news coverage of the Mt. Lee disaster for hours. His defense of her barely registered. "Either way, she was only following orders. You can hardly blame a neonate for blindly marching into a blaze."

The Regent agreed. "I am merely trying to piece together a full account of tonight's events. It wasn't my intention to implicate you." He blinked at her, and when the Seneschal finally raised her throbbing head to face reality again, grabbing for tissues, there was a glass full of blood sitting on the coffee table. She did not ask about its origins. She drank it quickly. The flavor was rich and palatable, soaking into her veins; it made discomfiture wane with the relief of being nourished. Cool _A +_ filled out the darkness that deepened dazed olive eyes. A ghoul servant with unremarkable, unnoticeable features scurried by and removed the can while its betters spoke. He took it from between her knees. "And – if you'll forgive me – I doubt the Prince sincerely thought Ms. Woeburne capable of killing Nines Rodriguez, whatever her orders… stockpile or otherwise."

"Those were not my orders. I had explicit instructions to avoid him," she explained, robotic – too ragged to lie and too content with sustenance in her stomach. The woman felt as though she'd just broken marathon tape and glugged pints. It soothed the aching in her torso. "I wasn't to kill anyone. That wasn't my mission. I was sent to destroy Anarch munitions; I had no intel about any explosives. Everything else… was an accident." She swallowed, and the water sensation went down like burs.

"To you, perhaps. Is it possible the Prince feared you might expose his Kuei-Jin contact? Was he aware you had uncovered these records?"

And so Strauss finally introduced the source of so many fears that swarmed within Serena's mind. She had circled around this potent, terrifying prospect a thousand times; she had counter-played it against Nines's theories that Sebastian brought his Childe here only as an anti-Anarch sacrifice. He changed his allegiances with the course of the wind, fluid as their clan leaders must be; he orchestrated complex plots decades in advance. How was she to contend with that mind? Both scenarios seemed equally likely… were equally upsetting, making the officer's pulse race, her fragile hopes plummet. She touched her forehead. It felt strangely warm. "I don't know, Regent. It didn't seem that way when we last spoke. He gave no warnings or indication that was the case. I don't think… I don't think it's something he'd suspect me of. But in all honestly, I just don't know."

"Ah. Well, we have reached this point, either way. There's little need to puzzle out every steppingstone." The Tremere gave one last slow, observant blink. He looked upon the harrowed woman, hunkered over in couch cushions, dabbing her cheeks for blood smears that didn't exist. "I am sorry, young Ventrue. I imagine you were meant to be your Sire's scapegoat should his enemies evade him."

"But _again_, it doesn't matter what roles Ms. Woeburne played or precisely how Nines Rodriguez met his end. Our concern is Sebastian LaCroix, and if the Baron is dead, she is the only testimony we have." Count on Beckett to pigeonhole the crux; neutral advocates were a valuable shield, but Serena was more thankful for the way his brisk estimations cut through Maximillian's compassion. She wanted no more kindness from Kindred – kindness one must always fear is false. Strauss's sympathies would crumble her fortitude before they consoled the ousted Seneschal… a good corporal, whose investigations had kicked a coup into motion, and whose obligations nearly killed her for it.

And yet she wondered, subject changed so suddenly, empty wine glass leaving condensation on a coaster… she wondered if the old Gangrel knew everything there was to know about Ms. Woeburne's role in Nines Rodriguez's death.

"There will be justice for this, certainly – but all things in good time, Beckett. You of all people know how vital it is to separate petty politics from more important business."

"I certainly do. Which is why we need to move away from this conversation about Anarchs, dead Toreador and where eager Seneschals fall between them. I'm not so fretful over justice, Strauss, but progress. If we let the Prince fiddle with that sarcophagus – whether he sells it, opens it, or _smashes_ it open; I don't know – there will be disaster. In what form, I can't be sure. But if you value your city's stability at all," the scholar warned, twisting to address his partner directly, "we ought to spend more time on that than the perpetual who-killed-who question. Else, the answer for many Kindred in Los Angeles might end up being 'Ming-Xiao.'"

Serena was frightened by the condemnation in Beckett's voice, usually so blasé and unconvinced – but she still felt her own answer would be _Sebastian LaCroix_.

"Wisely put. If you are so sure the Ankaran Sarcophagus is the nexus of this mess – and I trust your judgment – let us talk of how to separate him from it. But first, there is another matter."

_Her_.

Strauss left his fireside station, removed Serena's goblet, and handed it to the same sullen-faced ghoul. The boy had shuffled silently into his master's chamber, pasty eyes and droll stare, without any apparent summons. She did not question it, nor the chilling pity Ms. Woeburne felt for him – a blanched slave to his maker's beck-and-call. She was too tired to probe blood-witch magics. And, as though he'd read fatigue upon her palm: "You must be weary, Seneschal. We have spare rooms available to you, and should be able to accommodate your palate with no trouble. Please rest here for the day. Mortimer will show you to a comfortable dormitory. And procure our guest some fresh clothes, more appropriate for her station," he instructed the blank-faced servant. Serena said nothing else. She no longer had an inkling of what her station was. "We can assure a safe sleep, but I will have my own Apprentice monitor your door if you would like."

A Primogen's protection was double-brained; they would guard the young Ventrue as much as they would ensure she did not abscond into a battlefield night. Beckett's stare reflected this hard truth as clearly as she'd seen it for herself.

Ms. Woeburne, legacy LaCroix, was very tired of being a bird in a cage – her Sire's carrier pigeon. But what other choice did she have?

"Thank you, Regent. Thank you," Serena murmured, stood up, and was lead out with Beckett's counsel echoing at her back: _we need a plan._

There would be no sleep that morning.

The spokes turn.


	77. Phaeton

**Phaeton**

_Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth… the moment one definitely commits oneself, the providence moves, too. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents, meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamt would have come his way._

_- William Hutchinson Murray_

* * *

Ms. Woeburne didn't feel a thing.

Her face is bland and robotic on the Floor One general camera of Venture Tower. She walks into the rear lobby with nothing in her hands. She does not think ahead and cannot swallow. There is dignity in the arc of a bait hook; she reaches into a jacket fold, burnished Italian hide, tugs out a handgun and shoots the portly security guard as soon as he stands to stop her. "Hey! Hey, th-" is as far as his last words reach. The bullet burrows into gratuitous stomach fat; it cuts a second naval, oozing red. He stumbles, arms flailing. He falls backwards into the computer monitors with no expression. Ms. Woeburne doesn't feel a thing.

Police response lags; the emergency button goes unpressed. Supernatural response, however, is almost immediate; Serena's single gunshot echoes along these high ceilings, marbled floors, black tile and white wash. Pretty Joelle's replacement is a young Ventrue Associate, twice as impassive and easily physical danger tenfold. He skids around an enameled corner of _LaCroix Foundation _sign with an auto-loader shotgun grabbed from beneath the front desk. Blue neon targets the angry lines of fledgling face. Ms. Woeburne drops behind a pillar, knees bending with a sore, healthy click, and sees rather than feels buckshot break into plaster. Metal and paint bits tink around her, dusting the brown back of coat ash-pale. She does not panic. Crossfire from neonates is not enough to faze anymore, whatever their faction; the defunct Childe blinks slowly enough to square herself, readjusts her pistol grip, and focuses.

Not a thing. Not a thing. Not a thing.

One eventually lives with impending death long enough to stop worrying about it; charging Garou, Kuei-Jin interference and dead barbarian kings speed this process along. She has blocked mortality out only days after discovering how red Nines Rodriguez's bullets made her blood run beneath those weak floodlights of Griffith Park. The only factor threatening to derail Serena now is _surrounding_: the familiarity of these walls, this lamination-and-lemon scent, the burnt paper output of copying machines, laser printers and grief over all that is now lost. They are details that erode the anesthesia of sacrifice. And for all that regret, the Ventrue knows it is not fate or chance – it is a mix of circumstance, responsibility, resignation and accidents that have knocked her down from an officer's post on a magnate's coattails. So she does what she can, given these remnants of an old life forced before her: the woman ignores this place, extends one arm and squeezes three times directly at the guard's upper body. The Glock 22 is a soft-mouthed and reliable weapon; it misses once, but sinks two bullets into his neck. When he falls, she shoots him again. This round spits through the man's head. Skull bones break against a metal detector beam.

Their fight is short, but it loud enough to lock this skyscraper down. That's all right. She had no delusions of flawless cinema entries; she is not a Nosferatu infiltrator or a cartoon sleuth, clad in mesh and heat-vision, too foxy to die. Ms. Woeburne sees brains splatter on a desk chair and feels nothing. She shoots once more to be sure. She has to be sure.

Leather covers bruises and broken skin – Tremere magics have buffed most bone cracks smooth – but Serena will not make the mistake of presuming first blood again. She is ageless; she is not immortal, and the grimace pulls at her mouth cuts. Buck and clawmarks kill. There will be no heroism or guesswork in the risk of tonight. There will be only the black ice of bleak, absolute certainty.

No; this is not a quiet, cleanly breach. Not here on Floor One, at least, which to her may as well be white sand at Omaha. _Quiet_ and _cleanly_ have been the Ventrue's professional guarantee for some time, but they are not her prerogatives tonight. Tonight is a little different. She has been told to make a lot of noise.

Venture Tower does not like noise. It is the negligible response, in fact, that next begins to uproot Serena's deadbolt calm. This sophisticated place of business would very much like to conclude Ms. Woeburne's role with minimum havoc, and so does not send any SWAT waves or collared Brujah pointmen waving riot shields to splinter her skull. The woman has to wonder if perhaps Sebastian has rolled his eyes, somewhere dozens of stories above, puffed out a snort and assured everyone that if they just _settled down and ignored her, the self-defeating Childe would realize how moronic this all was and go away_. There are two casualties spilled across the floor behind her, and this thought made the agent feel angrier and more fruitless than any hour spent with Maximillian Strauss. A rogue Seneschal is ultimately a clogged gun – an impotent shot, loud and stuck to the reach of her arm. She cannot make her damage last. She can punch through the glazed window glass and make dramatic messes, but not one that would outlive a cleaning crew. She can break marble, but she cannot make this building shake. She can kill his watchdogs, but she cannot hurt him. She is not positive, even now, that she wants to hurt him. Perhaps they are just waiting for her to leave.

She's not stupid or hopeful enough to honestly think she can.

_There_ it is, and it is no larger than a dime: one harrowing red speck, comforting only as proof that someone overhead has noticed her. It is a laser dot buzzing about this cold, lofty foyer; it hovers around Ms. Woeburne's boot toe, bounces off the wide column she props herself against, sprints along onyx tile. There is nothing in this entrance hall but cracked plaster, bullet casings, one hemorrhaged kine body, a fine layer of dust and Serena. Someone aims at her from across the street, and soon enough, a single targeting light becomes two, becomes three, becomes five scoped rifles humming along either side. If she moves from cover – and the vampire cannot squat here forever – it will end with brutal efficiency. Clear shots are not difficult for agency snipers to find. They had turned this assault into a canned hunt – let her waltz in, but never out.

Serena presses flat into the pillar, unbreathing. She must remain calm.

* * *

_But it is hard to be calm with this camera in her face; it is _hard_ to be _calm_ standing in a Chantry foyer, reading statements before the expectant, glass-covered eyes of Maximillian Strauss. _

The Ventrue's hands shook as she held the newspaper, dated _12-11_, over her stomach. She swallowed the sheepshanks anxiety made of her throat. There was a glaze from the digital camera, and it hit her sallow skin like a helicopter nimbus; that red pin-light blinked ::REC:: like a devil eye. Ms. Woeburne did not try to see. She stared past the motes that rose, floaters in the dark space between face and lens – new blood, new furniture, new stepping-stool in an old Tremere house.

Serena has seen grainy films like these shot in desert caverns. They are equal shares propaganda and death promise; they prelude the retribution to come. She waited for a man with a machete to sift through the bookshelves and cut off her head.

But violence is rarely so simple in this modern Jyhad. There were no Sabbat footmen to make the blows quick and brutally natural. It is in that cool, stale chamber Seneschal Los Angeles gives her testimony – and does so "just in case," as the Regent said, a quote she had used to justify their gristly brand of insurance many times before. Woeburne recited her lines and her findings. She listed reasons for doing what the spurned Ventrue Childe and a handful of supposedly "free" operatives were apparently about to do. She made Camarilla loyalty pledges, all scripted. She will offer herself as a scapegoat one more time to these hell-wizards who claim they know how to untangle the knots of tonight – to their pallid leader, whose complexion looks strange as blue lips lie around neat pearl teeth. Put plainly, Serena does it because they tell her she has to; there is no better stratagem.

"_We don't know him like you do,"_ the warlock reasoned, a shot of praise that made her bleary, as might fine wine. _"You are the one with the keys and the history to enter that place and unlock it for us. Do so. Make your entrance bold. Be our city's young heroine for a few moments. We will take care of everything, and once business is done, we will absolve you of it all. You will be rewarded; that I can assure you."_

They do not expect her to stride unscathed into Venture Tower or out of it again; this much is absolutely true. These nervous conspirers could make practical use of a distraction, particularly one as theatrical and ultimately unthreatening as this. The rest is all bullshit, as Nines Rodriguez might have said; and Serena did not like citing fresh ghosts, but there was no other way to put it. It is possible they could have used his help now that the tables had flipped so starkly. It is unfair, Woeburne decides – wickedly unfair – but fairness is not a building block of Kindred life. Hindsight is worthless. They have no Anarch victims, standing alone amongst a heap of fresh corpses; there will be no petitioning the craven Primogen with a ripe Domain at stake. And so tonight comes down to a Camarilla officer smashing against the glass wall of a rogue Prince. She feels more like a sparrow than a stone; there isn't much consolation in the knowledge that someone will use this footage to exonerate her post-mortem. Maximillian Strauss will scrape her tussled body off the concrete and use it for his own means.

Beckett did nothing to defend or argue – he was not a creature built for causes. But the Gangrel's coppery stare was flat in a dismal, peculiar way; he had seen this many times before, and those grim eyes told all.

Regent Los Angeles was smart and conservative – and while he would be puppeteering for a ruling position, did not want political ties to this coup when such a convenient second card was at hand. Honesty was relative. For him, the tape-in-question was not meant to be proof of intent (should the star survive); its purpose was not to spare Ms. Woeburne's name from a long list of Ventrue traitors, posthumously or otherwise. If the plan went sour, this deep-voiced scholar could use ten minutes of hasty, amateur footage to turn it all into a ruse; he would reveal these unseemly hostilities as one disposed, battered Seneschal's attempt at revenge for what happened to her. And if the plan succeeded but the tolls were uncomfortable, she may as well be Strauss's martyr… he could distribute Sebastian LaCroix's stolen files along with the last will of his late cat's paw tossed aside. In the stead of solitary, solid evidence, there would be spotty fingers pointed and emotional, high-flung arguments to evict an aspiring king. Appeal to the community's fears: _He did it to her! He could do it to you!_

She did not rest that morning. She lay dressed on a water mattress in the Chantry townhouse – cold quilt, oak floor, ceiling fan – staring at the shadows its blades threw upon papered walls.

According to Board reports, released just this evening, Serena Woeburne is already dead. Prince LaCroix has claimed her as a victim in a war against barbarism – and for all the Party lies, false devotion and tactical deaths, she supposes that bit of image management is not untrue. The governing structure is different, Anarch den and Camarilla cell; they are two distinct brands of barbarism, but their world is barbarism, nonetheless. It has rendered her prematurely to a whorl of dust.

This faux-raid would make it easy for some new administration to swoop in and settle, the woman supposed, though there was no incentive or active motivation on her part to do so. Nines had heard the truth: it was never the way she wanted it. It is never the way you want it in the game of Jyhad. The bottom-tier goal is survival. Role-fulfillment is the only way to win; pawnship is a new player's place.

Serena's lessons amounted to understanding this. Her death makes it more than circumstantial hints. Her demise makes the past year-plus of shadow war real… peaked and used up like any stalwart company soldier, like any good revolution trooper. It's of little consequence here at the dénouement. Whatever guises were worn, however passionately one might rail against it, whatever claims of leadership were made – more often bestowed than earned – there was always someone older to turn your efforts into a production line. She could count the bodies. She could tally strikes and swings and trace their puppet lines back like the tangles on a love knot. Serena, Sebastian; Rodriguez, Abrams; everyone was coal to their elders' forge, abandoned when they roared too hot and sputtered out. They lived at the pitch of the wind. The young were firedogs, all.

Nines Rodriguez lost the game because he refused to accept the rules. Men like Strauss and LaCroix won because they had acknowledged; they passed through their own combatant phase intact; they were among the few, the graduating class, who'd exercised enough patience and propriety to grow old.

Serena could not imagine waking up to a tomorrow. She might yet cast her final hand, but it would not be for floundering insight; it would be for political expediency. The fact of the matter was that Los Angeles's councilors only needed a witness alive for the truth; who ever wanted the truth when you could tailor a better lie?

Woeburne would control what she could about tonight. Her options were not diverse. Her name was, in all likelihood, already printed upon the casualty books. Her face would set that place on alert from two streets away. So the woman did not slide a keycard through its slot, step gingerly into that pretentious marbled foyer, demand audience and wait for her Sire's response. She knew what it would be. There was one kind of distraction a dead Seneschal could provide.

There was a moment of nothing where Serena forked through those glass doors, watched security stand up, and breathed the cold ventilated air.

She went in shooting.

* * *

There are now six red dots popping along the tiles in Venture Tower, seeking clearance toward their target. They disappear as soon as the Kindred spots them, settling on acceptable marks, waiting patiently to bite at a glimmer of dark hair. Ms. Woeburne hopes her assailants are sloppy, but distance shooters are patient beasts. She knows time will not send them away as much as she realizes the probability of every shot missing is insignificant. Serena perks her ringing ears for radio chatter that does not exist; what need do they have, wherever they are across that slow downtown street, to discuss eliminating such small prey? At least it will be quick. It won't hurt. That is more than she can say about anything else these last few nights.

What ground has she ever gained that did not hurt?

Standing up is somewhat appealing because it is expected of her, but the Seneschal can still feel Sebastian LaCroix's survival instinct hounding weakness – siccing upon it – even as his soldiers take aim. For all the vaunted power of governments and due process, politics run their course; in end, tactics are often trumped by blood, even if loyalty is not. Ventrue do math. Ventrue can improvise. Her eyes take the room apart: reception desk, computer screens, ceiling lights, rotating sign, locked elevator doors.

Fire extinguisher.

Serena pulls the handgun from its perch against her shoulder, is careful not to overextend, and fires at the canister hanging on an opposite wall. Anxiety makes her first shot miss and crunch into enamel. The second planks in – it knocks that telltale cylinder down, pierced, hissing thick smoke to flood the room. There is a loud burst when shrapnel kicks off, but Woeburne is not relying upon stealth this evening. Exhaust chokes monochrome tile. Opaque plumes of it roll across the ground in stripes, making lobby space look like a warzone.

Her evasion is engaged and finished within seconds, but there is no panicked edge to Serena's speed.

Without thinking or feeling or needing to cough, the vampire shoves her Glock into its holster and leaves cover, clambering awkwardly through all this steam towards where she knows a small singlet door is fixed. Behind the far edge of those grandiose, sleepy-eyed elevators is a second route. Fairly out of public sight; easy to access. It is discreetly painted black to match the walls and secured by janitorial staff, but that hardly stalls her now. She moves as fast as possible without scrambling. She descends that useless, intimidating pedestal built to frame the conventional way up; claps past the _LACROIX_ logo, radiating ego; turns a sharp corner that provides cover, but does not block off every sniper shot. Of course, the getaway is not laid completely open. Padlocks (literal or metaphorical) were stumbling blocks all decent adults learned to anticipate, but such commonplace delays not smart enough to stop her. The handgun is unclipped again with one fluid motion – pointed, with brusque matter-of-fact strength – at open space above a brass knob. Three bullets slam the wood. She reaches through their pulpy hole and cranks the handle, falling down five shallow stairs more so than walking. It is difficult to see through the haze she has created, but fumbling has saved her before; sometimes perfectionism can be as exploited as much as sloppiness can.

This time – not that one escape will make any real difference in the long run of December – it is.

There are no rifles discharged in the smog. Figures, really. If her trackers had been Toreador, she would have been dead; if they had been Brujah, a dozen times she would have been dead; if they had been anything but Ventrue, Serena's body would have collapsed bleeding from the craters blown haphazardly through her. But these men are LaCroix's gatesmen – his personal scouts. Of _course_ they are Ventrue. One benefit Ms. Woeburne has over other stock Camarilla poster-boys is her propensity to err; she is willing to miss a shot, to reach her goal by persistence rather than calculated precision, to win by ugly means if it means _winning_. There are twists in Jyhad where a mistake could save you. Mistakes were often unpredictable, doggedness harder to trace than elegance. In this, Childe mirrors Sire most of all. Like Sebastian, she can prioritize; like his corporal, the Prince is and has always been prepared to sacrifice flawlessness for life and a crown.

But these young clan-mates are short-sighted. They are marksmen trained for absolute accuracy, and won't waste bullets when their aim is not sure.

One of them buzzes the next waypoint, no doubt, but Serena is too numb to worry about what looms ahead. The Seneschal finds herself in a dank, windowless maintenance room that smells of peroxide and break-hour cigarettes. There is nothing to utilize here among monkey wrenches and yellow mop buckets. There are plaster chips and lime powdering the back of her hair. She tumps every available thing in front of that wounded doorway – cheap plywood table, plastic crates, steel shelves, file cabinet with two broken wheels – steps into the service lift, and looks at a dark button panel.

It presents her with a stunted offer, but is movement nonetheless.

**1 2**

**3 4**

**5 6**

**7 8**

**9 10**

Five fingers are curled rigidly around a pistol grip, nerves dead. She pins the Glock in an armpit and unfolds them with her opposite hand.

Her own words – in her own voice, at the wheel of a quiet car with LA's first betrayer in the backseat – beat hummingbird wings against Serena's skull. _"Where do you want to go?"_

_Home_ was not an option when you no longer knew where it was. But there was a fiscal meeting room on level eleven, Ms. Woeburne remembered – lined with sound-dampening, bulletproof glass. She could upturn the heavy conference table and make a decent last stand. Venture Tower's entire defense force had likely been alerted to intrusion by now, but a pulled fire alarm and backpack full of ammunition boxes could prolong the distraction; wasn't that the point? This plan would not deliver her into the skyscraper's most fortified nooks, but Serena had visited it, and the height was satisfactory; close enough to reach, and tall enough so that a dive through the north-facing window would kill. Capture wasn't thinkable.

One digit uncurls, shoves itself into the number ten, and falls.

Both hands are stiff, but they are calm; this is the peace that comes with nothing.

Nothing follows understanding your place in it all.

_Understand_ _this_: you have climbed over bodies to get where you are.

* * *

_**One**_

_A dozen kine, not murdered but disposed. Blood on the highway; windshield; truck bed and bathroom floor. Blood on her shirt collar; fingernails; teeth. Kine are trifling. Kine get in the way._

_**Two**_

_Cold basement; broken chair. Diablerist with duct tape tracks and his throat shredded out beneath the single light bulb. _

_**Three**_

_Jeanette Voerman – conspirator, derangement, debutante, dead by dawn if Therese had read the files stamped "Order of Seneschal: Open Immediately."_

_**Four**_

_Zachary Leonard, talented neonate – seeking to please, sure of too little, eaten by a bigger snake._

_**Five**_

_Melting candlelight, Ionic columns, darkness breaching into grooves. Bruno Giovanni, old world don with rumpled suit and craggy face, steamrollered by the ambition of a new age._

_**Six**_

_Burning asphalt on the quay. Shells rolling. Dead Anarchs, names forgotten long before Camarilla deathtraps claimed their titles. _

_**Seven**_

_Joelle Lefevre – dragged into knots not her own – pretty red rabbit in a gag._

_**Eight**_

_Shattered windows, torn curtains, journal pages fluttering the carpet. Security footage; men who scream in Mandarin. Ingvar Johansen gunned down by an information leak – one more truth that should not have been told._

_**Nine**_

"_Everybody's scared, London. Everybody."_

_**Ten**_

_Victor de Luca stands with both feet on the Los Angeles blacktop and opens his car._

* * *

"Seneschal" is a lofty badge for a Ventrue Foreman – and though her rank was freely given, corpses have cobbled this road.

Serena's palms slam into metal siding when the elevator lurches to a halt, gears grinding, emergency breaks slicing deep into shaft sides. Her lids peel open. Her gun, freshly reloaded, clatters down. She stumbles between scooping it up and flattening against the wall, all pupils and eye whites, her stare devoid of green. Courtesy lights chop out. Stamping buttons is useless. She can smell searing – a toxic scent – something rubbery, like elastic. The sound alone was horrible – something between a screech and a hollow bang – and it provokes a heart-like thrumming beneath Ms. Woeburne's breast. Ropes settle overhead, groaning through the silence of an uncertain wait. Her mouth is caught in terror novel dismay.

The lift doors slide open with a smug, inviting "ding."

And the vampire hunches without looking, wilting into a corner, expecting gunfire to riddle her dead.

When it does not, she cracks an eye, pistol itching at one hip, looking out unto the warmth of orange light against pecan. The air is dark. Windows are spotless in this vacant office chamber, clear to apartments and pollution, neat cubicles catching a bluish shine of the moon. There is no furious tipping; she sees no glowing monitors. No semi-automatic snouts are forking around desk drawers. The hallway is empty. Or it appears that way, at least.

Serena knows better. Invisible danger by no means meant the path was safe.

The elevator is snagged midway between levels nine and ten.

From where it has lurched to a stop, she can see about two inches of Floor Ten – a mere yellow sliver above an unwavering bar of cement. This is no escape hatch. If Ms. Woeburne used her knapsack as a stepping stool, she might be able to slide a few fingers through it.

There is a moment of hesitancy – of rising dread – before planning impulse returns, and the Ventrue begins to formulate. No place to go but down the flat, closetless corridor and into that workspace; no crannies within which to press, no cover behind which to duck, no makeshift shields. She would take a good three steps out and forward at most. They would let her walk just far enough to find a perfect line-up. The hidden gunmen – and they _were_ here, make no mistake; perhaps crouched in a cubbyhole beneath paperweights and scanners; perhaps propped against that copy machine – would need seconds to seal their shots. Then they would squeeze triggers in unison, barraging the hall. There would be nowhere to run. A spray of ammunition would mince Serena's face before she could react and pash the clock across this dim accounting floor.

No. _No. _The Seneschal did not move.

'_Linger too long, though, and someone may toss a grenade.'_

It's a sensible fear; she heeds it. She recalculates.

She looks up.

A knife point twists the screws off an overhead vent, and it is awkward how LaCroix's Childe shimmies her way up, braced weakly against these claustrophobic ninety-degree angles. When the grate comes unhinged, she pushes it aside. Woeburne hoists herself through with no hesitation – bag first, a tight squeeze, then shoulders and hips. A rough edge nips her calf and scrapes it raw through padded denim. She barely feels it. Dual safety ropes overhead are taut and fatly braided; from the top of this short lift, Serena can almost reach up and touch the shaft ceiling, tracing gloves through years of dust.

She strides into the mellow dark of Venture Tower's tenth level, loads her Glock with high-expansion JHP, and searches for stairwell access. The Ventrue walks quickly. She does not run.

There are thirty-eight coolheaded steps between Serena Woeburne and the Toreador fledgling who spots her gun.

She counts them silently – turning the sharp 'L' corners of Floor Ten – navigating these wide, underdressed corridors that make it up. Landscapes and economical tan wallpaper crunch her shoulder-blades the entire way. The Seneschal does not look at them, for she has no interest or time; she does not stall at the glinting corners of print stations and faintly buzzing computer rooms. There are people here (Kindred, ghoul and kine), working diligently into night… but these drones take no notice of one woman stalking by through these tinted glass dividing walls. Their ties are pressed and their spreadsheets are far more interesting. They are like she used to be, kept ignorant and productive; no one has told them that single chime is an alarm. Quiet murmurs, coffee cups, ash trays. Urban smell and distant car horns through windows propped ajar. Dry pens and warm ink. Theirs is a narrow, soothing life.

LaCroix's Childe keeps moving. She does not panic. Sharper beasts will intercept this raid at any moment, but for now, it remains on-track. Her destination is a short distance up and away.

Thirty-eight unhindered steps, two more thresholds, one more fork left. The stair access is red and looks like a dollhouse door at the end of a long, bare hallway.

It could have been easy, but he nudges out of a rec-room – scattered, underpaid, too blond – folders overflowing both arms.

His eyes carve a beeline to her holster.

Ms. Woeburne yanks a suppressed .38 from her hip and splatters a round straight through the neonate's throat.

Blood spurts and deflates the boy's cry into a gargle, but even as he flails backwards, she can see that time is short. It's too loud. Already they'll be scrabbling for barricades and intercoms through the data labs behind her; Elysium guards will race towards hostile sound. Their reaction won't come soon enough for this child, though. Serena fires another volley to compensate for the Celerity. Speed from a Toreador is automatic… and the _expected_, as this Ventrue has learned from experience, cannot save you.

_Unfeeling_ won't save her, either.

Killing is too loud and it's much too close in here.

The response team that quarantines this long, constricted foyer was en route long before shots rang out. Bothering with the silencer was probably a waste of time – Kindred can hear beyond it, and domestic kine cannot stop her. But saving time is a curious concept while standing strapped inside Venture Tower, gun-in-hand. There is no real objective, no _mission accomplished_ to be had here; everything is done to delay the end. So when Serena hears that telling _click-tink_ of live ammunition locking in a M16, she does not freeze or make some useless display of surrender. Reflex bogarts through fear. The Seneschal, halfway to her exit, reaches down to grab that glugging neonate. He cannot resist with holes pouring from his neck. She steps over a mess of graphing paper – seizes one sopping fistful of collar and one of short yellow hair – hefts them around as fluidly as possible and makes an ugly lunge for the nearest break-room door.

There are three of them – adolescent muscle-men kneeling with oversized rifles cocked – and they give her no warning or hesitation. Nozzle flash lights up the hall. Shells the size of fingers patter the rug. Subtlety is a lost cause by this point – with siding smashed and frames knocked down, puncture wounds making a water machine spurt. The sounds of a human stampede are overwhelming, surely, as this level (and likely any stragglers on Nine or Eleven) shriek for cover. 9-1-1 calls will be placed soon, if they have not been already. Their terror eliminates any chance for Prince Los Angeles to have a smooth night. Chaos demands cover-up and newspeak. This will annoy Sebastian. At least there is that. At least, if all else fails tonight, she will prove to be an _annoyance_. It is a better lot than being a lamb. This Childe has bleated for her Sire's attentions long enough, but she won't ride quietly to slaughter.

Bullets pierce the Toreador, diving through meat; two of them, only moderately slowed, hit Woeburne's left side. The impact overpowers the pain.

His body is cover for three seconds at most before it ruptures and turns to ash that bursts down Serena's front. It has done its job, though. She falls hard against the threshold, limbs tucked in, ammunition glancing off posts and crunching behind her head.

The Ventrue has dodged their direct line of fire, but they do not abate, spitting short automatic pops that come precariously close to the touch. She looks to the tears in her sleeve. The capsule wedged between bicep and tricep throbs, shallow and clean, spilling bright scarlet. It must come out. She is not inside her body when thumb-and-forefinger pinch the bullet, gouge it free, release. A bloody cartridge plinks and rolls across thin carpet. The one in her shoulder is stuck deep and leaks a slow blue-black. This one remains. Ms. Woeburne watches her hand rip the stowed SMG from its duffel pocket, slap in a magazine, and spray toward the stairwell ahead – into the legs of another guard who has just appeared. There are four now: a trio behind and a scout ahead. They have effectively cut her off. She's not sure what clan they are, and reasons that fine-grain details don't really matter at the moment. You learn as you go.

There has been a patronage broken, career undone, responsibilities unjustly given and revoked. There have been punishments-turned-training-grounds, forgotten assaults, minimized damage, organized crime. There was mistrust in the form of temporary exile and censored reports. There was – long ago – an Anarch basement with a single drain, broken bones, lacerations, burning pier tents, knuckles to her face. And there was the string she had danced on for throughout – the displacement and condescension, loyalty traded, love commodified, a life's work made trivialized. Beneath it all, there has been abandonment.

You have to learn to let it go.

The agent – renegade agent, she supposes – scoots deeper into her safe room without shutting it. There is no shock to dampen the burn this time. Her neck muscles, still weak from regeneration, screech their upset; her elbow tingles with blood loss. But Fortitude holds everything together well enough. She wipes the Toreador residue from her eyelids with a sleeve. She forces herself straight, back propped against a far wall corner, hearing boots shuffle as the threat outside inches closer and reassembles itself. They mean to box Woeburne in and, it seems, Venture Tower offers few other options at this point. (_"Take care of it quickly," _the order probably went. _"Before police arrive and this turn into a motion picture."_) There's a couch in her small space, she notices – a thatched, itching monstrosity – that might serve as a passable ditch. Loose cabinets, a refrigerator, a vending machine… she could build herself a haphazard partition. It might hold for fifteen minutes or more. It's not a bad prospect, really, but for the fact there are no windows here – no other means of escape but the muzzle of a gun.

The Seneschal doubts they have been commanded to capture her, anyway.

It doesn't factor. She is past the point of giving up now.

Four times in Serena's life has she been backed against a wall; four times has she been rendered the special sort of helpless that comes with hands flat against the limits of space. There have been dozens of metaphorical instances but the physical ones are numbered. They begin with a childhood confrontation in her modest neighborhood, pushed against chain-link, trudging home barefoot with sodden skirt. They continue in a campus commons midway through the 70s, locker handle biting its keyhole between her shoulders, told flatly and succinctly: _you all have no business here_. Sprung upon by city Gangrel in the early days of her neonatal state, Sabbat fledglings growling false warnings down a dark New York alley, nights before she had been instructed to carry guns. Thrown against an upturned truck bed, Nines Rodriguez's death threats in her face, his thumb and fingers digging deep beneath the ridges of her jaw.

These experiences were not wholly connected, but nevertheless taught an important lesson about the dynamics of being trapped. Clarence Darrow wasn't quite right: it is not always possible to free yourself. But if truth chases your fear of death away – keeps the panic held at bay – it is sometimes possible to twist. Executions can be overridden; ultimatums can be renegotiated; 'certain' doom can, in fact, be postponed. Jyhad is played years – occasionally decades – in advance, but in the streets and boardrooms of an urban Domain, it is also a matter of day-to-day. You survive. You do what is needed to take your next step.

Serena's next steps were through a fire team and up a flight of steep office stairs.

You face your trials one-by-one, but that doesn't mean you can't plan ahead.

Woeburne reaches into the pouch upon her belt, pulls a small black canister. The Tremere have provided some basic tools – weapons, protective clothing, a canteen of blood she drains and tosses aside – but their stocks do not include many plebian items for magicless vampires. So she asked for a budget to outfit herself. These compact explosives the Seneschal now clenches were purchased from a weapons dealer ignorant enough about Kindred politics to thrive in LA's underworld; she'd found Gabe Milam's kiosk via Anarch investigations done months ago. Nosferatu did not like well-informed ghouls. Serena knew she could simply walk into the unassuming shop, lay down a clammy roll of bills, and claim another client of his referred her. The man looked pale and shaken when she did so; his shelves were bare, storeroom underground. It was enough.

The Ventrue was hoping to save these until a larger wave, but desperate positions demand desperate measures. She throws a chair at the door as a lure and lunges aside, waits for answering gunfire to detach its hinges, then bites and spits the grenade pin.

The first is a flashbomb; it erupts with a bright pulse of light and disorienting bang. The second is an incendiary, and Ms. Woeburne wastes no time; she engages, lobs, and watches it roll into the corridor.

A few haphazard, dazed bullets shudder the room, and then there is a decisive – but strangely tidy – _boom._

That woodchipped door catches fire immediately, as does the rug, as do the Kevlar vests of Venture Tower's guardsmen. Paint crumbles and crackles; mortar chunks melt off the ceiling in this high-intensity salvo of heat. Jagged shards blew out of the glass computer lab walls across the way, sharp nails sailing forth after each detonation – a neat _one-two_ cannon crack – some of them nailing into bodies. One breaks a gunman's visor and drives into his brain, cinder on-spot. The three remaining soldiers are left wrenching it from their clothing and flesh; one has been badly seared, and forearm skin flakes off as charcoal. He does not survive long. Fires burn strong and hot on office equipment, plastic charring, emitting a smell sicker than the white phosphorus poison that slopped everywhere. It dissolves the floor.

It eats through Serena's boot soles when she steps out of the rec-room, into the smoke, and empties the contents of her submachine.

She does not know what hits first: the blood, the embers, or the ash. It is all the same mess.

She pushes through the flames on Floor Ten.

* * *

_One thought does not escape the Prince's Childe tonight, though she has locked most of them out; old worries, concerns and fragile recollections have been purged for emotional protection as much as physical safety. Ms. Woeburne must remain focused. And yet there is not a perfect blank slate – even with shock sinking in its hooks, the trauma of these past few days carving gashes through her capacity to feel. For all the numbness and oaths rescinded, one realization remains clear:_

_There are so many ways she should have died._

_She has come to California short-tempered and too young for this station; risks only partway understood, she has filled a suspicious and symbolic set of shoes._

_She has punched her toe into gas pedals and smashed automobiles with abandon possessed only by supernaturals._

_She has chewed her way out of a political murder._

_She has picked herself off shell-littered concrete on the Santa Monica Pier. _

_She has lived – carried out business – under the threat of Sabbat assassination._

_She has plunged willingly into a Camarilla ambitioner's domination ploys – blinders set, guns bristling, diplomacy a cool and useless nicety. And she has dared to dip her fingers into the darker center of this witch brew._

_She has looked an Anarch Baron in the eye with his bullet lodged firmly into her lung._

_She has crawled in the dirt of Griffith Park with bits of metal slatted through her legs, fresh memories of teeth and nowhere left to go._

_There are so many ways she should have died._

_But she has not._

_She runs up, up, up._

* * *

It is 2:17 on the morning of December eleventh when Seneschal Los Angeles opens a stairwell door and stares into the face of its Prince.

"Serena," he says.

She falls down.

* * *

_When Sebastian LaCroix asks Serena M. Woeburne if she knows who he is, it's obvious by the way this child_ sits there_ that her answer is no – cautious, vacant, scrutinizing – but without comprehension._

_That is corrected soon enough._

_She stood up suddenly, the thin mist of Queens a sheen against these quiet coffeehouse windows, car lights lambent through the dark industrial rain. It is a foggy November night in New York City. The date is 1974, an unremarkable year._

"_I'm sorry," Ms. Woeburne shot out, palming her notepad shut by reflex, nearly catching a heel on the chair leg. The girl's shoulders pulled back and her chin stiffened, a professional stance. Brown hair was a lengthy mess around rigid shoulders; the chartreuse grey of tired eyes was bleary and red-ringed. She had bitten off her fingernails with pencil shavings and markered books stacked high on either side. She stammered. "I'm terribly sorry. I don't mean to be rude. I didn't recognize you. If I had, of course, I would have- I'm sorry," it was, because there wasn't anything else. She racked straighter. _

_Even then Serena had known how to stand at attention. Even then, it had been mostly an effort to square herself – an attempt to be larger than she really was. _

"_Sit down," he told her, a command that was menacing in its calmness. _

_She did._

"_Is there something I can help you with, sir?" It was clear from her taut, hesitant English that the woman doubted this offer could be true. There was a poorly-applied swipe of makeup beneath her lids that struggled to mask the circles there. "I couldn't imagine my-"_

_A ballpoint rolled off the small table and plinked. Mr. LaCroix picked it up and set it back upon her notebook._

"_This is very embarrassing," she admitted, rustling papers, two fingers adjusting glasses that already rested perfectly upon her nose. _

_His simple statement was unoffended; that did not mean it was comforting. Though she had been in his presence for less than ten minutes, the girl did not believe this man – cool, authoritarian, fearfully clean – was capable of comfort. "I don't see why it should be. You don't know me."_

"_No, not personally. But that's not an excuse. I should have…" Her own worst enemy – yes, even then. "I work at this company. I should be able to recognize the CEO. I'm so sorry. I guess I thought you'd be-" _Older_, the girl's face said, but she did not. Appearance – though his was groomed much finer than hers – suggested the namesake of LaCroix Enterprises might have been perhaps a decade her senior. Yet his manners revealed a mind aged far beyond the mien; the severe and polished presence, the precise measurement of words, meshed uncomfortably with a thirty-year face. He exuded maturity more advanced than anyone else she had met. It was terrifying. "It's just that I've never seen you before. Not even a photograph."_

"_I am a very private person."_

_Then: "You're an administrative assistant, aren't you? You work for Ronald Collins in finance. Is that right?" There was little genuine curiosity in the asking._

"_Yes. Yes, that's me." _

_The cup he'd placed before her waited, steaming halfway between them, untouched._

"_What is it you are doing, Ms. Woeburne?" he asked, a ruder question than any faux pas the woman had committed tonight._

"_Oh. It's nothing," she chittered, grinning anxiously, shifting about. Another burst of vigor – Woeburne began grabbing her things, resituating them, tidying the textbook stacks. It was an expected reaction. Mundane conversation, particularly topics relevant to the individual's interests, put kine at ease. "It's just coursework. Research, is all. I'm working on my mas-"_

"_I'm aware it was you who handled the Van Buren Account."_

_The fidgeting stopped. Her energy dropped like stones in a well._

_Six days ago, Serena – a low-ranker in their corporate ladder, by no means an outstanding young star – had received her daily review and began meting out the usual routine of double-checks and organizing. The woman got a head start during lunch hour, which she usually spent alone. And somewhere during that time, espresso mug (you could smell it in the paper) and calculator at hand, Ms. Woeburne's inelegant finger meandered over a few misfiled expenditure reports. He was not sure why a dull, nearsighted character like her would allow such boring accidents to trip her up, honestly. But reasons did not greatly matter. What mattered was that she had circled – in flat, short, inexpressive red pen – several large figures listed as 'annual expenses' of Van Buren Brokerage. This in itself would not be an odd discovery; the sizeable firm had been purchased by their company last year, a quiet but productive caterer to affluent international investors. Bad press and a sudden, suspicious bout of slapdash federal accusations had made the deal easy. And (bearing in mind their resultant financial difficulties), a little heavy spending following takeover was not unusual. _

_The expenditures Serena flagged were significant, substantial, and numerous. More then fifteen of them, in fact. She had apparently stopped once reaching twenty-plus._

_These figures were especially interesting because they matched entries on a New York Branch project quarterly delivered just that past week._

"_How did you-?"_

"_It is a poor leader whom cannot navigate his own organization," he noted, and ignored how she squirmed. _

_This tactic was a popular trend since market economy had risen to precedence: manufacture disaster for a fittingly small-but-lucrative business, swoop in to save it with a 'merger' check, and then drain the banks to fund better prospects until they choked to death. Sebastian LaCroix had hardly dreamt up embezzling syndicate reserves; he'd not claim sucking money management fees and investing on behalf of the wealthy overseas was original; countless others had placed false bids to bump their own stock long before Van Buren Brokerage became his newest puppet. Human police did not greatly alarm him in matters not concerning the Masquerade. Had these maneuvers been exposed, he would have framed some lesser figurehead, and let law enforcement run its course. It was a strategy he had perfected over so many similar conquests. _

_So the noteworthy thing in this venture was not the crime itself – not even that someone had spotted it (though all parties responsible for misplacing sensitive data were punished harshly). What won Mr. LaCroix's attentions was the little investigator's reaction. She did not act upon it. Six days ago, Serena Woeburne stumbled across information she must've known was incriminating; five evenings ago, a sealed company envelope – discreet, but marked "URGENT" – had been tucked beneath the door of Sebastian's residence. There was no blackmail notice. There was no commentary at all._

_The woman's palms were pressing indentations into her slacks. "Yes. Well. I understand that sometimes, it's… it wasn't really my business," she mumbled, clearing her throat, complexion paling in a heartbeat. "Not even sure what I was looking at, to be honest. Company affairs – your affairs – it's not my place to nose around."_

"_To think so is prudent of you."_

"_I don't want to make wakes, sir," she said, and swallowed around a weak, insecure smile._

_Sebastian LaCroix was not a creature given to superstitions or sentimentality. There is no tender-handed cosseting. There is no announcement ceremony or swaggering Agoge. There is no idiotic rituality with no purpose but to bluster. What there is to consider is _service_. The services – and, more importantly, the _potential_ services a recruit could provide – were paramount qualities when it came to corporals. A subservient, obedient demeanor offset by diligence and self-sufficiency was his personality of choice. Halfhearted confidence was ideal. These were the traits that singled worthwhile servants out; these were the signs that guided his decisions. Nevertheless, he acknowledged the air of familiarity that struck about this otherwise unstriking girl – clever colors, a profile tilt, and origins that harkened to that distinguished first. It was a lax resemblance, but a resemblance all the same._

_Mr. LaCroix was not romantic, yet he was old enough to admit that nostalgia may have tipped the hand in the case of Serena Woeburne. He stared at her a minute longer across the somber expanse of café._

"_I appreciate prudence," Sebastian remarked, a compliment that made an offer; his tone spelled opportunity. "And I reward loyalty." _

_A folder clearly labeled "classified" slid across the table._

"_Enjoy your coffee, Ms. Woeburne." _

_Serena would prove a decent Prince adjunct – a solid, secure prospect to carry his means – who clutched the responsibilities he laid upon her like lifeblood. Each added weight gave purpose; every task or title added to the basket she carried for him. Childer did it willingly. Eventually, though, even the most promising corporals must be replaced. Eventually even the strongest back breaks. And LaCroix knew she, like all the others, would eventually drop it._

_He left her there with no handshake and a beginning in her lap._

* * *

December is as good an end as any.

It is the nascent winter of 2012. It is chilly, dark, and clear over the city of Los Angeles. A grisly breeze rolls off the Pacific. In the stairway of Venture Tower, Serena swears she has fallen but somehow is still upon her feet.

Her body locks shut.

Her strength keels through the floor.

Her Sire stares at her devoid of everything – but in his emptiness are expectations that threaten to kill.

When the vampire steps backward, her movements are staggered and dismal, but she hangs upright. It is not horror that grips Serena in the ventilated air of this severe, spotless place. Not exactly. It is not defeat in the sense of tragedy and resilience. It is not apology or love or the shame of red-handed failure – these sensations had all passed through the woman as she contemplated what it meant to sever herself from Sebastian LaCroix, but they were not processing now. The nothingness that took fort within swells, leaks and expands. She feels like air. She knows the way he looks at her now – how the clinical blue pitch of his eyes turn wrath and insult into something far more sinister: something objective. She knows that there are no threads out-of-place in his suit or pale hair. She knows that he can and will outwait her, buckling here, run flat into a future she's sensed for years but never had courage enough to face. She knows all of this very well, and it makes the expired Childe feel like there is nothing but space beneath her neck.

S. Woeburne is young in comparison – is resigned to a loss – yet the creature is still Ventrue. She won't look him in the eye. She knows better than that.

There is a pistol hanging at one side, she notices, heaviness that does not quite connect to her nerves. The nozzle points at a spot of tile. She does not lift. Her tissues are immobilized. It's as though there are no tendons left to move muscle, joint, bone.

"_Serena_," he says again, sterner now, persistence mingling with disappointment. Her call is almost cajoling from his mouth. The Seneschal crumples not of her own volition; there is nowhere left but wall. Her palms are like paws and leave blood prints when they hit the concrete platform. Her grimace is hideous, a manifestation of corporeal pain, as though someone took a crowbar to the woman's gut. The gun has been dropped. She is on all fours with the smell of cooked meat looming downstairs. Wet tendrils suture to her face. Crimson spots the floor from her stricken shoulder.

She does not speak and he does not, after so many decades and so many corporals, have to her ask why. She does not glance upward. She bores hollowly at the black shine of his shoes.

Sebastian LaCroix waits.

He could kill her quite easily – the cowed progeny is plainly aware of that – and yet he _waits_, standing with arms crossed loosely, gazing patiently at the dark crown of his Childe's head. He waits and watches her shrivel and recoil. He waits because she must know her disengagement postpones nothing; the girl knows what approaches. Prince Los Angeles has never expected anything spectacular from Ms. Woeburne – certainly expects nothing illuminating now – but feels no particular compulsion toward hatred or compassion. He has ushered in this scene too many times for extremes, understands Jyhad too well for infidelity to sting. Every moment prolongs a torture that will not change her fate. No, this is not a mark of mercy. There is simply no need to rush.

Serena knows she will die instantly because she has seen it, processed it, recognized the one-sided nature of devotion. She is his progeny. She is Sebastian LaCroix's Childe, animated by his vitae – but as surely as the Ventrue can feel that bond in her marrow, she also knows her blood has never touched him. There was no bite-and-coddle to enter this world. He had merely put her in a car and given the order. She had been driven off, tranquilized, hung upside-down in a pre-prepared room with clean slices to jugular and wrists. She was fed her first sustenance intravenously, strapped firmly to a hospital cot, and kept under the watch of men in black suits. It was a hygienic procedure: practical, clinical, structured. One fresh drop of his blood on her teeth would do; there was no need for reciprocity. There was no mess and no trifling attachment that might hobble her value – purely strategic – to an administrator who would soon become a Prince. Ms. Woeburne's transformation was not an embrace, but an acquisition.

It is a cruel, cold wait – one they both know cannot last forever.

She is not sure how long it does.

"Serena," her Sire chides, mild irritation, and she was wrong about him – there _is_ comfort in the finality; there is solace in the grave promise of what's to come. "Look at me."

Serena knows she must by the way he says her name.

The air drains out of her. Everything does.

She suffocates in inhuman blue.

Sebastian's request is mild, to-the-point, and nearly congenial. In this – in the business of severed contracts, retainers disposed – he does not generate excess emotion. His pronunciation is crisp, and it is reassuringly benign. "To your knees, please."

The girl leans up until her weight rests on both shins, action robotic. She cannot move any other way.

He continues. "Place your left hand behind your back."

It wrenches around and fists there like a proper trooper.

He concludes. One white palm turns expectantly toward her face. The Prince's words are calm. "Now, hand me your pistol."

There is a clattering from the child – a genuine, whimpering, fruitless resistance. She does not want to. She tears. She's shaking harder, fingers curling; her arm struggles not to extend, nails twitch as they dig into a gun grip; her guts contract, wrenching out sounds of despair. She notices how terribly, horribly clear his voice is. But she has to. There is no choice.

Has she ever had a choice?

* * *

_"_Y_ou are a corporal," said the Prince. "First you serve."_

* * *

Sebastian LaCroix takes the gun from his Childe. _Takes_ is inadequate. He lifts the pistol gently from her trembling hand.

In the quiet that follows, Serena listens for its hammer click. She cannot swallow. Her throat is too tight. She cannot see. Vision blurs in these ceiling lights that halo her Sire. She cannot touch her bullet wounds and feel pain, though the blood still stains; it is all too far away by now. That is a life that someone else lived.

She is unable to move any further and thus does not.

He has no closing _"dismissed"_ or endgame lectures for her. Whether this is a small kindness here at the end, or whether it is simply because speech is wasted on dead men, Serena is thankful. She does not want to hear his voice anymore. For so many years, that genteel tone has puffed her up and broken her down at a pin drop. Words themselves have never mattered so much. A fluctuation or emphasis is enough. This power that he wields is unfair, it is callous, and – though they have always been this way – it has deflated her for the final time. At this precipice, the woman has to wonder what percent of their tangled web she has allowed and how many knots were beyond control. A fledgling has little say in choosing parent and clan; one cannot sift through inheritance offers like a catalogue. Yet there is more than heritage at work. A collar was picked out and shined up for Ms. Woeburne months before her undeath, but at least part of this snare was stitched by her own failings. She wanted to please. It is the product of submission, of cowardice, of living too many years unloved, of being too afraid or too short-focused to make wakes. She let him jar and praise and coerce the course of her existence for decades; she gave him access to herself with subservience in such a way that with him here, there is nothing left of her. It is the greatest insult. This is worse than anything Prince Los Angeles has required of her; it is bitterer than being paralyzed by blue, and harsher than any punishment he could possibly deal.

There are four rounds currently sitting in the Colt she gave. Sebastian would fire it – had claimed it from her – but there was no denying this: of the bullets, she has put them there.

The vilest betrayal is the one you commit upon yourself.

How many times has she met wickedness, and done so knowingly, with a bland "yes, sir"?

"_You need to think big picture, Miss Woeburne. You need to think in terms of epoch."_

_She'd say to his schemes: I will, sir._

"_The trick to succeeding in this life is preempting outright violence with adders in their baskets."_

_She'd hold her own basket diligently, propped on one arm, and confirm evil with: I understand, sir._

"_Do you know what is worse than having no answers to your problems, Seneschal?"_

_She'd offer her assurance with: I'm listening, sir._

"_You forgive me, yes?"_

_She would – because forgiveness was easier than the alternative._

_We all play the same game._

How many times in these past nights has she looked through the snout of a handgun and seen indifferent blue eyes?

Not long ago – when he made it coolly, casually clear that Lily's death would fix their problems – Serena had called Nines Rodriguez a demon. Much as she meant it, the insult outstretched him. It was more than a matter of anarch or lawman; it went beyond politics and ranking order. This was a matter of species. In truth, Nines was no different than any other Kindred captain she had met. Sebastian was no different. Maximillian Strauss was calmer, greed sedated by age – but at his core the Regent was no different, either. Order does not make men from beasts. Titles and birthright do not tame preservation instinct. Greater than the wars and codes and stark divides between them was the selfish drive to win, maintain, exist. Survival ran deeper than ancestry and stereotypes. Defense of territory was far more vital than ideologies that were convenient. You grow old; you eat your master; you die in the castles you build.

The sinking in her stomach was made worse by this certainty: given time, assets, and proper resources, she would become like them. Was becoming like them. Had become like them. She proved it with sacrifices that were not hers to make. Serena had never been particularly proud of her flimsy moral compass in life or afterlife, but this was a hard truth. What real distinction was there between Leonard and Lily Harris, save the fact one was familiar to her – less repulsive to a Ventrue's habits and appetites? Given a seat – given one measured slice of authority – and she'd turned to a shark to stay upon it. She'd killed and had-killed for what was only a minor throne. A natural process, it has been said: as your age refines, that exclusive circle of people you pity shrinks unto nothing. You grow old; you become a monster. Grow old enough, and Ms. Woeburne imagines she may well become an offprint Mr. LaCroix.

But then, this is not a luxury Serena will have.

Now it is finished. She needed purpose, but now she needs none. She needed approval, and now rejection makes the only source of approval from within. His hand held the gun, but in engineering this, Serena Woeburne cut off the leash she let Sebastian LaCroix fit to her neck. She would still die frozen; perhaps that did not also mean she must die mastered. There lingered a part of her that resisted the perfect modern predator the Prince before her was. There was a part tucked away in some small pocket of soul that embraced the rage of a murder, and the anger it sent in coils up her spine spelled independence. She may still love her Sire, the woman thinks, but she is not of use to him any longer. She has not owned herself in so long, but in this penultimate second, she is free.

She is now free to die hating him, scornful, violent – all things that were not permitted of her lineage or her station. She may as well look him in the eye.

One last betrayal: she feels cold.

And it is then the tower seems to shake.

* * *

Glass is the first clue. It scatters and rains down from the floor above; she can see flecks twinkle outside as they fall, brief flashes through a Floor Eleven window that lies just beyond Sebastian's disciplined shoulders. There is a series of explosions that rattle skyscraper frames. Smoke, the third clue, is white and tastes fresh through slatted vents. Bulbs flicker on-off. Clattering resounds from upstairs – it's a harangue of dropped items, slipping electronics, smashed décor and something that sounds like wood crunching beneath a well-placed sledgehammer burst.

Finally, there is heat.

It is this _heat_ that jolts Serena, anesthetized by Dominate, into fear. Hot waves seem to pour from the walls, radiating through plaster, seeding through insulation, smothering the perpetual coldness of Venture Tower. There is something horrid and unnatural about it. The way everything seems to glow in this sudden, insidious smog is supernatural; the texture is thick and feels oddly palpable, wanting to be seen. It is heat that smells like devilry. Ms. Woeburne, half-forgetting her execution, stiffens like a bargepole, alarm skewing the numbness that had only seconds earlier gripped her face. She watches Sebastian whirl around with wide, stygian eyes. He looks wildly to the ceiling. He clutches her pistol tightly in his hand.

Gunfire spits on Floor Twelve, persists for twenty-five seconds, and ends with one strange _whoosh_ followed by a scream that is more of a gurgle.

"_What in the hell is going on!" _the Prince might have demanded, and he twists around with bare teeth to do so, but never speaks. Serena's spooked, scrambling expression must have said it all. She has told him this more than once, with varying degrees of honesty: _I don't know._ Her face communicates the bewilderment and genuine fright clearly enough.

There is another boom – louder than the first, this time; ruptured piping – and he jumps back, skittish, a breath of air escaping. The anxious Childe grabs stupidly for her Sire's pant leg by reflex. Sebastian gives no indication of noticing. He cannot afford to notice a cat's paw – not with Elysium shuddering around him, rattled by forces he has not identified. She has experienced this before. Like the werewolf in Griffith Park, lines between traitors dissolve when tested by a greater foe; familiar evils are safer than a new beast. All kinship is relative. The Ventrue jostle; hunch. They seem to fall forward, through the stair door, into this wide corridor that has since emptied of life. No furniture; no useless decoration; no appliances to trip a meeting floor. Fire detectors buzz upstairs – they make a racket over Venture Tower's security chime. Emergency sprinklers saturate the upper level, padding steadily down, isolated puddles yawning open overhead. The diamond rug dragging Serena's kneecaps is gaudy red and feels unsettlingly warm. There are at least two other weapons on her person but she does not think of snatching either. She can trace the horror through his glossy stare – the instant, fractured confidence – and recognizes it. He makes himself stand firm. Gold mane; wan complexion; she can see the Prince's teeth.

Footsteps patter directly above them. The Glock juts its nose shakily down the hall.

She has seen the mark of Sebastian LaCroix bleeding through her countless times – and a hundred more since coming to Los Angeles – but this is the first time she has ever seen herself in him.

The Tremere that appears at the foyer's far end is in far better sorts than Ms. Woeburne or her progenitor. Slicked black hair; neat goatee; plain trench over an unimposing body of moderate height; Slavic lines in a round, care-creased face that could be any age in different light. She recognizes him as a senior Apprentice of Regent Strauss. He radiates the same sophisticate danger, sans his master's civility. Crumbled cement, char marks and dust mar his lapels; shoes track Kindred blood that isn't his. Two featureless clanmates equipped with double-shot luparas accompany him. The man's look is blank and focused. The name is _Jones_, she thinks; they met in Glendale's Chantry townhouse, said nothing to one another, and now the crossroads have led here.

After the initial panic lessens, she dreads the moment her involvement in this hostile co-conspiracy is made known. What would he say? What would he think? What stark and odious look would bolt across Sebastian's eyes? But these qualms are insignificant, because that great reveal never comes. LA's insurgent Seneschal simply slackens there upon the colonial patterns of this carpet. There is no shouting or sign of mutual acknowledgement; Serena imagines she may as well have been lying brainless on the floor. One hand is still clutching limply to her Sire's clothing. She lets it slide and fall.

The woman stares at her Chantry foil down the eleventh floor of Venture Tower, and decides she could have said nothing sensible, anyhow.

"Halt," LaCroix barks, thrusting the handgun with authority. The Tremere advances unhindered. He gazes fixates perfectly upon the Ventrue's pointed chin. His concentration makes their meanest Discipline null.

A prince has soldiers, not physical strength.

"I said stop," Sebastian insists, jerking the armed hand forward, shouting through that horrible second of choke in his voice. "Stop where you are."

Jones gives one flick of his right wrist that sends an enforcer reaching for their phone. He lifts his left in warning.

Woeburne does not doubt who receives this call; she is unable to tell whether her Sire has identified these intruders as Maximillian's, but he obviously harbors the same suspicion. Los Angeles's young magnate refuses to budge, yet his Childe can smell fear raising regal fur. There are telling muscle knots in his posture, usually so military and restrained; expensive fabric wrinkles viciously between both shoulder-blades. He does not bother hollering for security that has so obviously dissembled. They have already made it here, have they not? – and kings do not show their weaknesses by shrieking help. The protests wrung from him sound as childish as the reasons; they are as stubborn as the frustration and indignation that are wrought upon his royal face. "You cannot!" LaCroix maintains, and grabs Serena's pistol with both hands. These commands would be convincing with force to back it up; as it is, fire still smolders through the floor above them. "This is Elysium. I am your Prince. I will not allow it. Whoever has sent you, leave by way you came and you will be spared an execution. DO YOU HEAR ME?" He screams it when they do not react.

Nines Rodriguez has a hand in this small revolt: there is no Sheriff to make his threats reality.

"Stand down, Prince." Jones's order is calm and impersonal, his accent vaguely Polish, but the warlock's jaw grits in a way that shows unease. Ms. Woeburne does not know the year or origins of this dour student, nor can she guess his generation – but one does not confront a Ventrue magistrate lightly, no matter their age. "I come from the city Primogen. Your council has cause to suspend you from office, and they have elected to do so. You will be removed until a verdict has been made. You have no decision in this matter. Cooperate, and be guaranteed a trial according to Camarilla law."

Serena feels insane compulsion to defend him – for shared blood against Tremere voodoo, if not for loyalty – but she reins back it in favor of a confounded, wide-eyed stare. Her forearm beneath the damaged shoulder looks spectacularly dead from loss of plasma.

"Maximillian Strauss is not my council, blood-witch!"

She cannot decide if his resolve is admirable or if it is madness. And she is not sure how they are suddenly together in this – Childe and Sire, backed into a trap the former helped set – but perhaps the way Serena shrinks behind him is enough.

The arrest begins evenly. It will not end that way.

"We have been sanctioned to do what we must for the legal process to take place, Mr. LaCroix. Your peers found it unlikely you would submit to judgment freely, and so direct intervention was cleared. You will be held temporarily in a safe undisclosed location. Your trial will take the form of an inquest, with all local government branches involved in their appropriate capacity."

"On what grounds! On what presumed grounds do you trespass on my property, destroy Camarilla assets, and claim to have the authority to do so!"

The Apprentice blinked sullen grey eyes. "As stated, a council of your peers has elected-"

Whatever response he might have given – however the tranquil, phlegmatic battlemage might've rephrased it – would not have been sufficient to placate this man.

"This is MY home. This is MY city," Sebastian pants. "You honestly believe you can storm in with a puppet crew and seize what is rightfully mine? You actually think you have a _fragment_ of the clout necessary to enter this Domain and start spouting your master's will? Canaille, all of you; you are puppets, you cannot decide for yourselves. You are nothing!" He snorts and blusters, both spiteful and mordant. Realization sinks deep into the cornered caliph, enflames him, spits out as haughty yaps and incredulity. His outrage testifies to his might. She could almost believe him. She almost wants to believe him. "I am descended from the great empires of this world, and what are you? – self-spawned, pagan mutts. No warlock who sits _wasting_ in that sick, decrepit bee's hive can make motions against me. I am Prince of Los Angeles. I have meted out order where no one else could. I have survived – I have captained – more battlefields than you could study in a ten-year. I have brought the curs of this cesspool to heel like a whipped bitch-dog, I have stared into a demon's face and bent her to my will, and I alone keep the chaos from swallowing these streets. It is my right. It is MY right! You are _nothing_. You are in no place to make demands of _me_!"

She watches empires fall from her knees.

"We were told this would be the way of it," one of Jones's cohorts murmurs, only to be silenced by his stoic companion. They wear black, and they are inscrutable. Opinions from sophomores do not register. It is evident from the Apprentice's deadpan manner, his hesitance, and their exchanged looks that the coup d'état ringleader is already en route.

"By the decree of our Party masters, your Board and the North Central Lord, you are suspected of violating an exclusion treaty-" The Tremere's enunciation is precise, his accent a neutral roll, but Sebastian does not hear these explanations. They are likely half-lies, or truths given preemptively to shake a Prince's confidence. Appealing to high authority was, in theory, a wise strategy to cripple this clan – Ventrue are defined by bureaucracy and power pyramids – but poorly chosen for the individual. LaCroix has never adhered to provisions of The Board; he is unafraid of being frowned upon, distrusted, loathed. _Pacta sunt servanda_ means little to conquerors. The half-empty pistol menaces as though it could kill. His canines are short and sharp and they glint fiercely through the catlike growl he makes. "-and will wait under our custody until given further instruction-"

But the Apprentice does not finish before Prince Los Angeles straightens his back like a good armée cavalier and fires.

He shoots twice. The bullets howl with well-trained precision directly for Jones's forehead and throat.

They are inches from impact when the Tremere narrows his gaze – and they stop, suspended animation, then tap uselessly to the rug.

There is no return fire.

Serena cannot make a sound. Her jaw opens and shuts but the woman's lungs are stiff as stone. She grapples dumbly for her Sire's calf.

"You transgressions have been explained to you," Strauss's deputy announces, fist raised, holding the guards behind him at bay. Both men clutch their shotguns. The Thaumaturge is all firmness. Sebastian stares with ferine disbelief through the pungent smoke that leaves his weapon. "Be advised that this block has been secured by neutral parties for you protection and for ours. It is the Regent's hope further violence will not be necessary, but it is not forbidden. We have been granted clearance to subdue you by force if the situation demands it. The smoothness of these proceedings depends upon you."

"I refuse! I do not allow it! You have no RIGHT. You have no-"

"This is the final warning you will receive."

"YOU CANNOT," their Prince hollers again, and it is not clear what the Tremere cannot do – evade death, decommission a crown, dare to issue ultimatums inside this tower – her Sire prohibits all. Deep, uneven breaths rasp through his ribcage. He is fury stunted. He is a horseman who screams insults at the warmblood he has killed.

His crimes are black, but Sebastian LaCroix's agony is a pure one: no creature is _enough_ to serve him well.

Jones says nothing more – likely because he does not have the clearance – but no further signs of caution are really needed here. Chantry advisers do not mobilize without research; they obtain intimate knowledge of whatever enemy they attack, and fact-finding is not a challenge in California tonight. Imperial mentality is stamped boldly in every footstep of this young Elder. The conclusion of any upheaval is obvious, thrown upon their classroom blackboard in sanguine shades. It is in his lineage; it is in his personal history; it is in legacies of warlords this Ventrue Charlemagne emulates.

Great men – or those who think themselves great – do not go quietly. _Which_ makes no difference in the case of Sebastian Aldéric de LaCroix.

Somewhere in the next minute, Prince Los Angeles empties his firearm, throws Ms. Woeburne forward as a decoy, and makes a dash for the stairwell door.

It whips and bolts shut as though through an act of willpower, the simile more accurate than she knows. _Cut off._ Before Serena can rise from all fours – fallen awkwardly, palm heels carpet-burned – there is a frightening racket. Stucco and splinters clatter her back. Industrial dust bleaches the woman's filthy braid. Three ceiling lights blow out. A horrible, steamrollering, brutal screech of electrical sparks upon popped metal blackens the air. It sounds like the building _unstitches_. She flattens by reflex. Something heavy and not quite describable hurtles overhead at high speed.

The Ventrue looks down – her gloves have rubbed through. She looks forward – Jones stands stoic before two cringing henchmen. She looks up – an ominous, steel, seventy-pound fan is missing from the rafters.

One of the blades is stuck in their Prince's belly; another has chopped halfway into a shoulder, grinding down to bone.

Serena will never know if the resulting scream was from him or from her.

Decades of dirty tasks and habitual neglect, a sacrificial mission to a dark mountainside, ten floors of agents told their hand-puppet Seneschal was dead, two gunshot wounds, a ritual execution interrupted – all erased. It takes only that moment. In that moment, they do not seem defining. In that moment, there is damp beholdenness, duties unpaid. More than anything else, though, there is a remnant of something ancient – an unexpected bolt of feeling through the dominant emotion of _cold_. Serena feels sympathy.

In all these nights, she has never seen Sebastian hurt.

* * *

"_When we play our enemies against our enemies, only one victor is guaranteed…"_

_He laughed – grandly – linked an arm through hers, and clinked their glass rims together like old business cohorts. "The coalition of You and I."_

* * *

She is the Old Guard; she is the loyalist; she is the last tin soldier again, and checking a dozen wrongs, she flees to his side.

Her Sire's blood has splattered up the wall and coats windowpanes. Grim splotches of cruor and meat sink into floors. The massive fan whacked deep, hacking itself stuck – crashing him in a weak, prostrated curl between locked escape hatch and floor. Ms. Woeburne takes one vane in both hands, not knowing what to do with it. The Prince's face is caught in an intense fist of pain – eyes squeezed shut, leaking, wince wrinkling his cheeks and pointed nose. Thick crimson drips from his right cheek and hair, turning gold to scarlet. The blow has muted him. Fortitude has sealed the fan in his clavicle, cutting messily into marrow, shredding through cashmere and silk. Another blade has gouged down the Kindred's abdomen to a halt against his hip bone. The pin him there together, two arced wings – nail upper body to torso, skewered through like a toothpick in an eel. It is horrid and the Childe almost cannot bear to look. Her fingers clench helplessly around the uppermost blade; one of his palms blearily gropes for the fan beside hers, trying to lift, unable. She struggles to assist him and finds she can't. Serena presses down on his collarbone for leverage, but it doesn't help. He does not speak or whimper or squeal horror. There is only an occasional curt, inelegant puff through his nostrils; his lips grimace around neat fangs that look just like hers. If the woman listens very, very closely, she can hear a swallowed groan.

His name tastes funny on her tongue, even as a cry. She cannot explain why she still calls him _sir_.

Jones's approach spurs the Ventrue to her feet. Woeburne stands with weight she does not feel, propels one arm outward, and looks Strauss's minion in the eye.

"STOP," the officer snaps, a shrill demand, as though she might've truly entertained a possibility of stopping him. It triggers hesitation amongst agent and sorcerer. Her voice shrieks – not from bodily terror, not from bloodline racism or superiority complexes – but of distress. An alarming reaction in this gutted tower. Not wholly surprising, perhaps, between descendant and ancestor, but ill-fit to so much luxury burnt. Hers is a command from a dry and fragile throat. Desperation overrides reason. This is, Serena realizes as she finds her cotton tongue, the first time she has spoken since walking through those dour double-doors. Both the woman's palms are dark with a mix of their wounds. "_Stop_. Your role in this is over."

While his cohorts recoil in the background, there is no reaction upon Maximillian's solemn Apprentice. He regards Ms. Woeburne with quiet complacence. His beard is cleanly and untouched by dirt or gore. The Tremere is as unruffled and intimidating as he has ever been, and the progeny believes she hates him for it. "My role will end when our Regent declares it so. While it is not my choice to dismiss you, Seneschal, I answer to a different power tonight. He has made our goals more than clear."

She holds her ground between them.

Serena does not crumble – though it is difficult with Sebastian straining behind her, and the sting of how badly she wants to aid him. Tending disfigurements with fumbling mitts and anguished looks is useless, though. He is suffering, but he has taught her better than that. This is a Ventrue's place. It is the only way she has to help. "Your goals do not involve this," the vampire says with shivering hands. She forces strict expectations into her voice. "You are finished here. Contact Strauss. Bring him to this tower."

A blink. "I mean you no disrespect. Your progress was admirable for your age."

"_Strauss_," Woeburne spits. Her hackles bristle but her heart is plainly on her sleeve.

"My master will arrive shortly. Until then…" He gestures towards the grinding, wheezing politician in a ragged suit. She wanted to shoot him for his nonchalance. "My responsibilities are plain for everyone to see."

"Your responsibilities do not include killing your Prince! You don't have the authority." She shouts her response, parroting him, an unconscious doppelganger. Her eyes are large and the color of rock glass. The pupils swell like sand pits. "You don't have the right!"

She shows him teeth that smack of déjà vu.

"You presume too much. It is neither my task nor my intention do beyond what is required of me." The explanation is chilling for all its neutrality. His demeanor is worse. There is little worth listening to, but Serena wishes badly to clasp both hands over her ears; she swears to hear Sebastian's blood seep into carpet textiles. It staggers. Reality makes her unable to think. "You need not negotiate. Only be patient. I am sure you will be debriefed when the Regent arrives."

"He's downstairs, sir," keys in the lackey with the cellular.

Jones takes the phone, walks swiftly away from Ms. Woeburne, and leans quietly into it long enough to decipher his orders. One large, short-nailed hand covers the receiver. She does not move for what feels like a long time. Instead, the Seneschal watches that listless coat and greased mane with the stern, agitated look of a fight diffused – she draws her shoulders, clenched tight, prepared to argue for a cause abandoned. She stands as though to testify against them all, but these efforts are wasted. It does nothing but make her look what she is: young and insecure. It is posturing without a purpose. Mr. LaCroix has been rent down from Machiavellian mogul to something safe to ignore.

She returns to his side because there is nowhere else Serena knows to be.

There is more blood on the ground than in the dismantled Prince LaCroix; there is far too much for hands to hold in, his or hers. The Seneschal does not try to touch him. Her knees squelch on the saturated rug. It feels colder in blue.

She _sits there_.

There's nothing to say to one another – not that soothings are an option. Serena has no words for him and does not delude herself into thinking a child's grievous rites or snivels would mean anything. She has never really meant a thing to this man. It would be a lie to claim there are no more tears or promises left to offer up; the truth is callous, and it has ambered all trace of stupid hopes somewhere deep beneath Ms. Woeburne's skin.

She's a coward. She's glad he is too hurt to speak.

She suspects it would have been easier to die.

And then it is some time later – she does not know how long.

"Our master is here," Jones informs her, making no sport of how the Ventrue stares shell-shocked at some minute point beyond the real. Strauss's own corporal – he creaks slightly when he walks, middle a bit wide for his frame; he is inured to death, unwavering. He pauses behind her on his unimpressive, unperturbed way out the door. "The kine response has been dispersed. You may take a few moments to clean up. Meet us in the lobby in ten minutes."

It is a reflex.

It is reflex what moves between Sire and Childe. It is a reflex that she, when faced with a Sire's disappointment, allows herself to dissolve. It is a reflex that Serena Woeburne thrusts herself in a blood-witch's way. It is reflexive when she disintegrates at Jones's beck – that she feels her maker's losses more acutely than her own, even as progenitor's success means progeny's failure. Perhaps it cannot be helped, then. Perhaps it is natural and normal – a predictable, scientific response to stimuli that overload the mind. Natural that she would trade her pain for his because it adhered to the proper order of things. That she would still split veins and spill could it fix this damage done to him. That she would have done almost anything if it brought back a face she could recognize – austere, arrogant, exacting; not colorless, maimed, progressively feral – was reflex, unimportant, easily dismissed.

When the Tremere reaches for Sebastian – no bright dignitary; but a hissing, spitting, film-eyed beast by now – it is reflex that locks Serena's fists around his collar and mournfully holds back.

And perhaps this is reflex, too: her Sire's eyes roll black and his fangs plunge – swift, spiteful, meant to hurt – deep into her hand.

Her blood flash on his teeth is the last she sees.

They drag the great Sebastian LaCroix away by a fan sail. In the cool mid-dark of Venture Tower, she does not watch him go.

* * *

_In the vaporous dark of New York City, there are streetlamps and car lights. There is no moonshine. There are no stars. This boom town is choking under its own weight, its import too heavy; night sky does not penetrate the artificial glow._

"_You don't know who I am, do you?"_

"_No, I…" But Serena stopped, because in that moment, she did. _

_She believes she always has._

* * *

The Prince's Childe looks down at her bitten hand. Red is running through five fingers and plinking on the floor.


	78. Terra Firma

**Terra Firma**

The Empire Arms shone quietly in this cool California night; Ms. Woeburne's apartment, locked shipshape and clean, was waiting for her just as she left it.

It is empty.

Serena feels her boot toes press down into the vacuumed rug; sees her silhouette stretch and arc upon these untouched white walls. She glances to where a stale newspaper sits unfolded upon the coffee table. Its pages waft gently in vent currents. Two mugs resting nearby wear lip stains boldly upon ceramic rims; cup-holders protect the glass. The lily vase upon her kitchen bar stands unfilled. A rumpled jacket is slung over one arm of her leather couch. Cardboard bullet boxes are still scattered around; failed duct tape squares stick to furniture, some smearing dry glue upon her carpet. Wooden chairs mill at attention in their dim and tall-ceilinged dining room. Folders lay sullenly upon her work desk, stacked amongst pen holsters, notebooks, printing paper, envelopes arranged by purpose and size. Floor lamps stretch ominously. Bulbs, absently left on, hum color; electronics, idling, bleed muted light.

She stands in the doorway holding her keys in three fingers and stares.

Ms. Woeburne had not done much thinking in the two hours since Los Angeles's young Seneschal walked through a service door of Venture Tower, drawn face sent vacant into alley streetlights, hands darkened with her Sire's blood. The stricken hemisphere of her body tingled with Tremere restorative magic. Shredded coat fabric breathed in the prickly December wind that wrapped around skyscrapers, parked automobiles, metal dumpsters. Soles padded gingerly along the asphalt. She strode with no sympathy for her own limp.

Wise survivors might have dreaded reconciliations, bloody epilogues so often made in the shadows after victory… but where were the loyalists, hateful and reckless, if not here? If it was not his dogged Seneschal striking this match, who would light fires for the pariah LaCroix? More importantly, perhaps, for her own survival: did that fragile rank persist? Had the bell collar of advancement, prematurely given, been ripped away easily as Jones's fan? Was she still an officer? Was she still a Prince's Childe? These are the practical questions that did not enter her mind. Let no fellow Ventrue say Serena M. Woeburne was less than practical, but there were limits to a soldier's forethought, and there are fears of a corporal with her commander laden in chain.

By the time she reached the lobby, Sebastian was not there. His crossing was marked by the blotches of deep, rich, imperial red that did not settle upon black tile.

"_You concern is understood, Ms. Woeburne. We appreciate the role you played in this affair, and how uncomfortable it must have been. I am sorry my associates' progress was not swift enough to spare you the ordeal entirely," _Strauss had said in the glow of that awful entryway sign – so orderly; so terribly, terribly composed. Batteries turned this tower yet. The name _LaCroix_ betrayed its wearer; it revolved in his wake, an echo of power, a mockery monument to place him amongst those generals-in-stone he counted as his fathers. _"In time, I will answer all the questions you may have… but for now – in the interest of business – be content with my word. Your Sire's wounds will heal. We are taking the Prince somewhere safe – from his subjects, and from himself."_

The question does not beg to be asked: who protects his Old Regime?

"_Go home, Ms. Woeburne,"_ the Regent told her; a progeny's role has come and gone. _"I will be in touch." _

So – with nothing else left to do – she did.

The asphalt was motionless. The Jaguar opened cold. Serena had clicked spare keys in the ignition, locked, strapped a seatbelt across her breast, and drove. This route is familiar. Clustered cars, pedestrian traffic, blinding intersections, clatters of manhole covers pinned loosely, mumbling engine – all familiar, but they are traits that shrill of abstract worlds. The normalcy is surreal. She moved forward. She did not need to think.

When four wheels stopped in their allotted space, safety lights an unsettling wash overhead, Ms. Woeburne disengaged and stepped out into the vacant Empire Arms garage. She carried her filleted knapsack under one arm. She meant to leave, but those winking headlights – obedient, returned-to-owner – called for pause. The woman peered at her sleek vehicle a moment in all this stillness – cosmopolitan design caught in suspension, something that is as close as a royal heritage. Three cars she has spent and abandoned along the warm West Coast. Good troopers all, sterling and polished; all easily replaced.

This car is less a perk of authority and more so a remnant of being a pet. Yet Serena feels strange affection for it, short-lived as a Foreman's automobile may be. She thwunks both hands face-down on the bonnet. Her bitten palm bleeds through its bandage, spits scarlet on the hood.

Your top-coat is dark for a reason. The smear left behind is invisible, though you know it is there; no one need see the stain but you.

Upstairs, now – when she shuts her suite door, sealed soft and bolted snug – another day is finished. She is alone. She is in silence that drowns.

Ms. Woeburne removes her weapons and sets them neatly on the marble counter, just between microwave and sink, where unwashed glasses sit. She disassembles each and sorts the delicate parts aside. She sheds her clothing layers bit-by-bit, disposes of the damaged pieces, folds salvageable items to launder later. When all is divvied up and organized into its proper place, Serena showers. Dirt and smoke sediment whirl with crimson around the drain. Dripping hair wrings around a finger. She pats dry gently, peels wet cotton away from her palm, dresses the negligible wound to last. She pulls on a robe and ties it tightly.

When a daimyo of old was overthrown, his knights spilled their own organs to the grass.

Steam-fogged mirror, gunpowder flushed away, bare feet leaving a trail of damp footprints into a quiet den– clean does not feel much different than filthy in the stark winter colors of her home. There is persistent vibration. Oxygen cycles through the hotel's foundations. Through these thick walls, the hum-and-scrape of elevators is a constant; urban nightlife thrives well into morning, and it trickles in beneath her apartment door. This is downtown; it is unstalled by disaster and politics, or any combination of the two. Los Angeles is a city that moves.

Serena feels as though she should be moving, too – and indeed has been for longer than the woman can remember – but there is no objective, and this road boasts no signposts pointing out where.

A Ventrue Childe is a finely-tuned car: precise service, economical performance, intimidating form. But without a driver to motivate – to provide gumption and pedal pressure – the sharpest vessel is little more than a hollow, inanimate shell. Commanders rise or fall like angry tides; dramatics are in their nature. But officers are propelled from the outside, not within. Officers gather dust as they await orders, and spent, they can wait for a small eternity. Perhaps these changes would bring new direction to the metropolis. Individuals and Primogen suggestions did not so much matter; whoever replaced the outgoing magistrate had a variety of options in regards to their Old Guard: repurposing, dismissal, disposal. Or perhaps some fresh clanmate would sit the loose infanta upon a shelf until she became a relic of a thing – obsolete. Her life outlasted her objectives.

The Prince had needed her. He had needed her diligent services, her discretion – most importantly, her _here_.

She was still here – would be here, perhaps, until eliminated or instructed otherwise – but his need no longer factored. Los Angeles forced the Childe's growth, but more than a tombstone or training field, this city was ultimately an appointment; it had never begun to feel like home. A youngling's agendas did not include conquests. There was no alternate motivation to keep her. There was no other reason but his she had come.

Good corporals always return to their posts. Ms. Woeburne returns to the halo of her computer, blank, hands hovering heavy on home keys. She does not know what to do at it anymore.

So the Seneschal sits. She sits for maybe an hour or more. She is not exactly sure.

The telephone rings.

Serena scrambles for it, because the toll gives her purpose, temporary though this comfort might be.

The receiver is clumsy where it hops into one hand. "Woeburne," she chokes by reflex, not certain of what weight that name carries any longer. Knuckles pale beneath flaky gauze.

The Seneschal is duty-minded; she expects to hear Maximillian, personal in all his dealings, reading her a debriefing checklist from that decadent downtown lounge. But it is not Regent LA who responds. The voice that answers could not be farther removed from Strauss, sophisticate and soothing; this one is sing-song, wickedly coy, and it grates her nerves in a familiar way.

Jeanette Voerman.

"_Good morning, sweetheart,"_ she says – a low, pointed hello – and there is seriousness beneath the flirtation that unsettles. _"All tucked in?"_

Serena doesn't have the stamina for it. Diaphragm tight, skinned legs bare, knuckles stinging, Ms. Woeburne vacillates between hanging up and simply setting the receiver down to walk away. She does not do either. This is because Ventrue are not reckless creatures; it is also because, much as it tortures, Prince LaCroix's surviving Childe is desperate not to be left adrift with her mind and the silence. Surrealism killed any semblance of recognition now, but one could not delay endlessly. One could not purge the ragged sounds of meat rent to bone, or bleach the contrast of gore and golden hair. The thoughts would come. They always did.

She presses herself into the kitchen threshold – wooden frame between both scapulae, rumpling silk – and watches appliance lights wink along the spit-shined counter edge.

It's been so long since the Seneschal has dealt cards with such small fish.

"I don't have time for this," she tells the sister. It's not true. Right now, all that's left of the Los Angeles headship is time. "What do you want?"

It is not a warm reception, but there is nothing warm about Serena to speak of. Her coolness is not a choice tonight; sparse words and chilly greetings are a hundred indecisions chiseled into habit. Voerman takes it in stride, though, shrugging off the sting of big-name bastards buttoned-up too snug to take her seriously; she's done so with twelve dozen better vampires than S. Woeburne. Santa Monica's junior Baron laughs. There's an impious little giggle for every situation and the Ventrue stiffens as it scrapes nails down her chalkboard back.

"_You need to work on your PR skills, Seneschal! Sorry…"_ A static fizzle; a pinkie wrapped through a cord. Something in Jeanette's pitch teased as much as it warned. _"Are we still calling you 'Seneschal?'"_

The sober taunt straightens her up. So much done – so much risked over the course of a few weeks – and it would be this vain, red-lipped thorn that drove it to a close? Serena could not abide it. She feels like icewater, but the threat is obvious. Survival gave teeth to the ether of shock.

The woman swallows a rising blip from her chest. Five fingers prick into doorframe paint. The ends of her body all feel miles away from Serena's heart. But "I am," she parries, taut and impatient. There is a high-toned buzzing like blood pressure bubbling over within her skull. This apartment is too sanitary and far too cold. "And I don't play these games anymore, Ms. Voerman. I imagine you have heard something – else we wouldn't be speaking. What is it you think you know?"

"_Guess,"_ Jeanette gushes, a schoolgirl with a secret, barely able to hold its implications inside.

Ms. Woeburne yanks the phone away from her ear to punch it off, stress and temper blistering through with the sound of that wretched goad, but prudence thrusts its foot out. Her mandible clenches stiff and sore. She closes her eyes; an orange sunburst flashes behind them. Front teeth bite crush around the Ventrue's tongue. With the willpower that maintained her – full of dents and fractures by this hour, but still stubbornly intact – Serena found calmness, and she embarked upon another turn.

"No," the Seneschal says over the lump in her throat – one thick, over-enunciated syllable that is flat enough to stamp a Malkavian's joy.

There had been so many theories she'd spun about the state of their life; there had been foul words, crippling pangs, and acrid observations made by a desperate participant in this unbeatable sport. Many of them had been astute for her age, the agent believed; several were more accurate than fellow combatants granted credit for. And yet a core assumption Ms. Woeburne made about the stage existence that was being Kindred had been ill-formed. Her missed conclusions were a result of arrogance, of clan-born narcissism, of minor glimpses into a future too large to appreciate. Though Serena had never dismissed the role of individual malice in a society where rules were subject to convenience – where morality did not factor in the shadow of survival bids – she had been wrong about the field of play. She had always thought Jyhad was evil.

But that was not the way of it. Taking into account all the woman had learned, witnessed, internalized on this belt of cool Pacific, she could not swear so anymore. Tremere were right in one philosophy: emotion tainted the objectiveness a thinker needed to reason. Perhaps this was the realization that reared men like Beckett. Deductions meant nothing from the mouth of a test subject. She had been too involved – invested too personally in the events that unfurled around them, and thus unable to render good judgment.

In the finality of tonight, so much made clear by the smog of resolution, it was hard to gloss over. Power wars were spiteful and perverted beasts, but their battles were the products of conscious action. Jyhad was not evil – not particularly so. There was no sadistic undercurrent that forced their hands, made agency irrelevant, cheapened consequences when they were not yours. That had been the wailing of a young contender whose rolls began to spoil as stakes increased… someone who did not want to own up to a mix of chance and skill, because the cocktail of foibles, missed steps, calculations, random outcomes and fortune was too complex to make perfect plans. There was no worth to heartfelt episodes denouncing the energies of undeath – painting devil faces on clouds, personifying their species' political knack as some twisted female deity with a vengeance complex. It had all been too close to see.

Jyhad was neutral. Its deepest cruelty was that, in the wake of what felt like an end to one Childe's world, it drove life on.

"_You must be so worn down," _the girl whispers, waxed lips against a speaker, but there is new sobriety in her carnival tone. _"I understand. Really, I do. So I'll give you a freebie. I'll give you a friendly hint. After all…"_

Jeanette Voerman took pause.

"_It's a hard-knock old city, isn't it, London?"_

When you played the game, you made a choice. Serena Woeburne chose to stand exactly where she was.

"You bitch," she spat, and her temperature surged.

Little Sister hears real hatred catch fire in the Ventrue's gut and cackles for the triumph of it.

"_Temper, temper! And here I thought you were fast fighting Therese for her title of California Ice Queen."_ Glee and underdog nastiness swirl with the panic, confusion and rage booming thunderbursts beneath Serena's throat; she had launched off the wall without knowing it, teeth clacking, bandaged fist walloping into a cabinet hard enough to crack it. Broken wood fractured the silence. Fresh drops splattered from Ms. Woeburne's slowly healing hand. She does not notice. She cannot see although fury focuses the Seneschal's vision until each spot upon her tiled floor shakes like soldier ants.

Her body could not report anything but anger. Her canines glint in the synthetic kitchen light.

Jeanette's hints were jibes – politics never came without a touch of meanness – but they were mute. That inane, oversexed, simpering voice sounds a thousand yards away. It is as though there has been a plate shift inside the Ventrue's head. She knows fishing lines of information have been cast with all these barbs, but fails to nail them. Meaning slips through mental rifts like sand.

She would kill her for what that whore had just threatened; for what it implied; for what manipulations she so clearly was trying to ply. She would shove a magnum four inches into that soft bare stomach and squeeze the trigger and nail dead birth organ to ball-and-socket and she would _remember_ the look of genuine pain on a hobbyhorse's face and titter her big sister's rules while the bitch bled to ash all over her own goddamned floor.

"You have no idea. You have no idea how I will make you pay – if you _think_," she pants. She isn't sure what she is saying. Her gums turn brittle and grey. "You don't have a bloody clue what you're talking about."

"_On the contrary, Miss Priss. I have it on good authority – really _excellent_ authority – that I know quite a lot about this particular topic."_ Voerman sighs through her nose with fingertips tapping a rhythm on honey-pink wallpaper. _"Give me a smidgen of credit. I've got at least as many contacts as you, and mine _like_ me. Not much goes down on this coast without singing through the ears of yours truly. And besides, you haven't even asked me the best part!_ 'Who the blooming hell do I think I am? Where in heaven or hell do I get off spouting such complete nonsense?' _That sounds like something you'd say, doesn't it? Sounds like some ugly little stereotype you'd make. Too bad for you that the deck's rigged one hand in my favor this time around. Here, though. Just for the sake of good sportsmanship, have another puzzle piece… on me." _She gives space for five heartbeats – no more.

"_How many lives does a cat have, sweetness?"_

The Ventrue's lip twitches. Her throat seals shut.

"_Liar_" makes it out because a bark and the possible are all she has.

Jeanette – conniving, heinous Regan – couldn't leave her venom to sink; she has the perpetual need to swirl it one more time_. "You really wish I was. Me, too… but now I'm a few minutes ahead of our time."_

"This is a joke," Woeburne snarls, choking through the canker growing in her windpipe. It was the only thing she could say. It tasted like bile, but hits like a laugh. "Which suits you perfectly as far as this government is concerned. That's it, then? That's what you come up with! You think a lie's as easy as that? I will not-" She sees, only now, how a drawer handle has come off in her injured palm, torn away as an afterthought. It slams down atop the bar, skitters, and drops behind the refrigerator. Her fingers are frozen. Her eyes feel filmed like a hooked bull shark. "I will not be intimidated by trash. Not by you. Not by _you_ – hah!"

Serena could have crumbled drywall at the girl's smacking, impatient puff. _"Kitten, now tell me something: why would I lie to sweet little innocent you?"_

"Because you're toying with me. You smell blood in the air, and you can't resist. I know what you are. I know exactly what you are, you wretched little jackal bitch," the Seneschal snorts. Her defense is a train wreck of anxiety and back-pedaling; it begins to stutter. Faults do not seal themselves. Faults deepen. "I don't know how you nosed your filthy way into whatever you did – speaking to me like this, and tonight – but I'm not about to-"

"_I couldn't believe my ears either when Bertie told me. But you– you're just so _clever_. I'm sure you'll come around when you see for-"_

She screams it. "I SAW HIM FALL OFF A MOUNTAINSIDE UNDER TWELVE HUNDRED POUNDS OF WEREWOLF."

"_Mmm… yep! That seems about right,"_ Jeanette chirps, merrily confirming a horror-story across the line, devouring the breakdown of an old accomplice-made-pincushion. She eats disaster like strawberry cream.

Voerman is iniquitous, malevolent, and roundabout; her language is sugary-sick and toxic, but it makes sense. Her allegations could not have been true, Ms. Woeburne is sure – and yet there is a possibility to them that strikes fear. The woman's resources were undeniable. When the Griffith Park explosion hit news media, Jeanette sent her private Nosferatu sleuth picking through bushes in search of whatever 'big business' Rodriguez had alluded to during a rushed telephone call several hours prior. The prospects must have looked platinum – pull a political bomb from the crusted husk of Anarch bones – no collaborators, no crooked contacts to implicate a would-be Princess's disfavored sibling, no-strings-attached. Baron LA, once a tenuous ally, would now have served her better in death had his corpse turned up orphaned data mines. As all things too good to be true, however, it didn't. Gutted trees were uprooted. Garou meat was burnt. Tung dug up foxholes and trailed gasoline droplets across seared mulch all evening – they never found a cache.

"_But we did find _something_,"_ the sister is sure to add; her insinuations are more treacherous than a gun muzzle. Scavengers thrive in LA. An opportunist is built to prevail over prouder creatures that fight with claws, fangs and locked horns. Jeanette is a minor predator stepping in to drink up what little apex power still trickles from the desert's wounded beasts.

Jyhad is a groundless summit. The stone never stops rolling downhill.

It is easier to disbelieve. Serena has disbelieved as though her doubt, if adamant enough, could replace truth. But there is authentic mistrust in the Ventrue's accusations; her points are valid, natural, and perhaps they are also more likely than wild Malkavian tales. "Why should I accept anything you tell me?" Woeburne snaps, disquiet serrating the ridges of her obstinacy. "I am a member of this court. You are a known subversive; you say what you do to make me feel as though you've got some sort of hold, some sort of bargaining chip. For what, God only knows. I don't claim to. Maybe you've got the impression I'm the one who can untangle your sister from Santa Monica." It's a strong, hostile theory; it accounts for everything probable about what must be a fabrication. But even with the force of rightness, something feels that it isn't. "Who the hell can say? How do you expect me to take your word? You're either royally stupid to presume that of me, or you think I am."

"_I _think_ you've got an interest in hearing me out. Remember, sugarpuss: I didn't have to ring you up at all. Reckon you would've ever heard without me? Well… until a ghost comes back to bite you in the ass somewhere farther down this road, that is."_ Unkind orchestration slices through mounting hysteria. Serena sinks her fingers into a mess of dark, wet hair.

"You're LYING," Woeburne orders with no space in her throat. "This is some kind of sick party game to you; you're only-"

Voerman flusters at all the insistence and answers it with a childish harrumph. "_Ugh, Bertie was right: you are SUCH a Ventrue. Think what you want, kitten, you silly girl,"_ she dismisses, low-lashes and upturned nose. "_But you can't command the world to shape itself in a picture you like. I'm giving you a warning. You're a fan of warnings, aren't you? Nines Rodriguez-"_

Serena heard the name like a gunshot and she shouted what she knew. "HE'S SIX FEET UNDER THE FUCKING GROUND."

"_Fine! Don't believe me,"_ Jeanette sniffed, ponytails whipping with her brewing ultimatums._ "Maybe you'll believe this?"_

There is a silence. A plasticy clap and a shuffle suggest Voerman Junior plopped the phone on a desk top. Quiet – nerve-wracking quiet – persists for maybe a minute before the business in _Asylum_ announces itself.

Ms. Woeburne's cell shivers alone on the glass of the coffee table. She picks it up to a grainy photo of one milky palm holding a massive werewolf tooth.

Gum matter sticks to enamel. It is fresh.

Serena stares.

"It doesn't mean anything," the Seneschal knows. "You could have pried it out of a dog corpse."

Another sigh.

"_Well, you're right enough about that, snicklefritz. But this dog isn't quite dead." _A Metis with a broken back; fifteen yards away, a trail of brackish, ebbing blood wound through shedding junipers, pooling in footprints, waning into a concrete culvert. Rot stagnated in the blackness. Like all throatless carnivores, he'd crawled to a dark spot to die. _"You might not recognize him if you saw him now. But my peoples' patch-jobs are a step up from leaking through a storm drain. You'd be surprised what a desperate man trades for fresh hospital blood and an hour to heal in my good friend's hideout. Or not."_ Five heartbeats; Woeburne nearly dropped the receiver. Free weight hooked into her lungs. _"It's such a cute story! El Comandante and plucky Officer Bobby set aside their prejudices and band together in crime, just for the sake of roping little old me into their agenda! But you two didn't check your references very well, jellybean, and your handshakes don't mean much. So! One werewolf, one assassination and a suicide run later, I bring a touch of assistance to my two-faced but terribly beaten Brujah friend – who was probably planning to snatch Santa Monica for himself and leave us both in the rain, by the way, once this Sabbat mess cleaned up. And what did I do? I turned you all inside-out, kitten," _she coos. The ingenuity of it staggered. Serena has backed up unwittingly until she presses against a spotless den wall. There was something contrite in the jokester's confessions as she strolled on. _"Really, though, I can't take all the glory for myself. I barely had to lift a finger. You did it to yourselves. Tsk tsk. Could've taken a lesson in teamwork from me and Bertie. But no – we're too small potatoes; we shouldn't be bothered with. Hah-hah! Bet you wish you had! Swam a bit too deep, didn't you, lovey?" _She does not say anything. There is an empty fireplace locked across the living room in black iron. Her head pounds. _"Shot your own partner! Kicked out to conquer, and all you both proved is that it's true what they say about Ventrue and Brujah. Bad blood. Bad blood, sweetness. It runs all the way back to the ancients. Ideologies aren't the soul of this fight, no matter how hard you hold that Party line. The soul is this: they've always wanted to be your people, poppet. You know that about Rabble, don't you?"_ she tutted, pouting, leeching on the omens of two thousand years' history and a blueblood's quiet havoc._ "Always wanted control like you have. And you've always – somewhere past that attitude and your better judgment – you've always been afraid that one day, they'll rise up and take it. And the crowds will cheer when a war Baron steps on your head and shatters your crown."_

It is an olden feud – it plays out in a hundred cities, ten thousand streets, the bones of leaders dashed and the bloody fields of revolutions rent to dust.

"_Can't defy our forefathers, cupcake. He told me everything I need to know for a hole to crawl in," _she whistled out, then – in the glow of victory – fell to a clucking, babyish pout._ "Oh, sweetheart. I'm just so sorry things had to turn out this way. There's not a care to be found in the world for you, Serena Woeburne, is there?"_

"I don't…"

"_You've been a very naughty Prince's Childe. I have to admit: it blew me over to hear how you've been wheeling about these past nights. Stolen keycards? Break-and-enters with Anarch pawns? Go figure! It's always the straight-laced ones, huh? All this time, I thought you were a great big snore!" _Jeanette rolled the mockery between two fingers like cigarette paper. It was a perilous job living as a little sister, shoved beneath the radar of solemn Kindred neighbors; it was a rare, relished delight when these same haughty schemers were brought to heel by their own conceit. There is a Seneschal twisting on the end of her bait line. _"I'm sure you had your own nasty plans for us, sweetie. You can't help it, can you? It's your nature. But me? I'm a dove among hawks… I can forgive-and-forget. Ninesy might've been the first to cave in this sweet trifecta, but he hurt my feelings – all this sneaking around and double-dealing. And now he's more a liability than a bonus. You, though… you're still in a position of power, aren't you?"_ Cannibal teeth grin large and witchlike._ "For now."_

"And now _what_?" Her defenses fire – heated, insulting, and thistled. Ugly scenarios are spinning out behind a murky mind's eye. Woeburne would deny as much as she could, not knowing whether her Board clout still trumped Voerman's claims; Primogen loathed LaCroix's mouthpiece for youth and nepotism alike. There's no way to be sure this Santa Monican vulture is truthful, but her lies are enough to paralyze. Serena's hands go numb. "You lure me into a snare with your tall tales, yank whatever you want from me, find an extortion chip – whatever the hell it is you hope to gain. Forget it, Jeanette. I am not so easily manipulated. You can tell stories to whomever you please, but if you honestly expect anyone to bel-"

"_Oh, I certainly tore the rug out from under you, chickadee. But you can trust me anyway, because I don't play favorites – picked _you_ to be my pal, didn't I? No offense. Between boardrooms and bars, Brujah are just more to my tastes. Especially after you exposed me to Therese to save your own skin – what a dirty, dirty trick! You put me in a lot of hot water, honey. A LOT of hot water. So much that a dip outside my doorstep could burn me, even on nights like tonight, when there's so much to do. But I can appreciate how things change... and Rodriguez isn't a top dog anymore. You're my new local star. So now – rather than frying you for a Free State crown, hon – I flip the whole thing over on him. And it's all on account of one little favor you're going to do for me. Sound fair?"_

These presumptions – jeers from a sinful, spoiled brat to a grown woman – make her ichors boil. "I'm not going to dance on your chain because you flashed a loose tooth," the Ventrue snarls, chuffs, and prepares to lay down several threats of her own when Ms. Woeburne's mobile lights up a second time. She snatches it. A picture frame tumbles off its nail and falls, glass erupting, dusting charcoal every which way. Bare toes avoid the shards. It's another spill gone ignored.

Four images greet her, low-quality horror boxed in a small screen. They all show an unfurnished basement – icy, condensating pipes; bulbs with no lamps; broken ceiling fan; dust motes humming inside thick, heavy blocks of cool cement. They all show destruction. Red paints the walls, blotches the floor, splatters a single table where someone appears to have fallen. Scissors gleam monstrously in a stack of badly-cut gauze squares. Dark spots that look like pine and black pelt stick to rag heaps around it. Stained gravel scatters the floor. Jeanette makes sure to capture herself in a corner of the third – faux-innocuous smile, mascara-drooped lids, peroxide mane, two fingers forked 'peace' around her naval. There is a beach towel slung over a coat rack just behind, sopping, losing drips of scarlet into a floor grate.

One last snapshot: a print scrapes down a door, a size that fits Nines Rodriguez's hand, needles of blood running to the tile.

Serena's question is intensely quiet, and her voice loses all of its quills. "Where is he?"

"_See, I knew you'd change your tune. Oh, dear. Too bad the Camarilla's about to make a Big Official Company Statement that you killed our Anarch Scourge. That might make an itsy bitsy bit of professional trouble for you, hero, don't you th-"_

"WHERE," she demands.

"_Not here. We didn't have the security to play nurse with profiles that high. I don't know where he is,"_ Voerman tells the deadly placid Seneschal – upfront, promising, blunt. _"But I know where he'll go."_

When Woeburne foggily steps backwards, she crunches the broken glass. Fragments pierce skin. The soles of her feet bleed.

"Why? Why are you telling me this? What do you wan-"

"_Because I like dramatic endings, poppet. Because given things unfold as they seem to be, you are in for a big old promotion, and I am out of wiggle-room with my sister. And because I know how this wheel turns." _

_Who had said that?_ He had been a dead man. She had witnessed Nines Rodriguez bitten through, seen his ribs glint through fractured windows, and watched him disappear into the mountain dark. He had been gone as any Kindred she'd personally shot to dust. There had been no thought that the Baron might have survived. She had recognized and internalized his removal from their world the moment Garou paws exploded through cable car door. And seconds later – when she had pried herself from a cage of wreckage, smelled faraway smoke, stood shivering in the broad forest night to look around and found herself alone – that was the last thought Serena allowed herself to have otherwise.

Now Jeanette Voerman told her that a killed Anarch was alive.

Slanted images are not proof. Terrible feelings are not truth. It is possible he is – only possible. 'Only' does not comfort. Serena observes the evidence but she cannot make it resonate. Nothing has felt real since sweeping out of Venture Tower hours ago in bloody clothes and battle fatigue.

When a Ventrue does not know what to think, they do not think at all.

"_Now, I'm willing to let everything I've seen about your black marks slide… since, well – we all make mistakes, and I'm sure you can help me with mine." _Somehow, the girl is still talking. Crimson seeps in circles beneath Ms. Woeburne's heel. Jyhad moves all of them on. _"Kitten, I know it might seem that two chickens like you and me have absolutely nothing in common, but it just isn't so. Both our cats are almost out of a very small bag. We share an inconvenient friend in Nines Rodriguez. The difference is that I'm not in a position to soil my hands, you are trained for executions, and I don't have a fancy Board to back me if I lost."_

"So you think I'll kill him? – clear the skeletons from your closet for you?" Serena had not meant it to come out like such a screech. The muscles of her chest are twining and trapping oxygen in awkward pockets of shout. "Is that what you're aiming for, Jeanette? You drop one alliance for another by convenience and expect from me _what_? An administrative position?" she bawked, "A title to hold against Therese? I can't offer you any of that until I know-" Sudden alarm cut the cord of outrage. LaCroix's Childe scrambled to a stop at the rim of a precipice – one half-sentence from divulging weakness that would make her too worthless to barter. "-how the politics of tonight are going to play out," she finished. She had almost said _"what's going to happen to me." _A vulnerable Camarilla badge might as well have kicked the standing board out from beneath her own noose. The façade of usefulness is everything. The gloss of authority must be protected at all costs.

Voerman squealed. A badly-chosen prospect distracted her from whatever job insecurity Woeburne let slip. _"Administrator? Me? Hah-hah-hah! You're so crazy, teacup! Can you really imagine me in a three-piece? No, no. Listen closer." _And she began to murmur, a classmate scooting closer in short skirt and stockings. _"My sister is a far bigger menace to me than anything in your darling ickle court. We've had our differences, I know. But I am pretty fond of my life and my lifestyle, and I imagine you're awful attached to your head. I doubt we'll have either if Rodriguez rebounds ... which is enough to make me shiver-and-shake, _unless._" _It was the magic word. _"No Nines, no Anarch sympathizing, no fingerprints to rope me in. Sad story, I'm afraid – especially since it means I wreck all the promises I just made to my ill-fated rebel – but that's how Jyhad rolls sometimes. Now, I _let_ everyone's favorite Baron waltz out of my care. I stitched him back together and gave him a bit of cash. And that was a decent trade, because God knows me and Bertie are not throwing punches at a Brujah on our lonesome… but not decent enough to convince me he ought to leave LA alive." _The pause that came was noxious; it left nothing else but to agree._ "Better pick up your spear, little centurion. It ain't over yet."_

Fact erased speculation and stomach aches. She had killed Nines Rodriguez once, walking into that grim wood trembling and unsure, stinted by physical doubts as much as indefinite emotions. She had hefted her gun and shot and been shot but she had done it. Fact was paramount. She had done it once. Ms. Woeburne knew she could do it again.

Her gullet and her convictions are bitter. "He cannot help you, Jeanette. The Free-State imploded a long time ago; any promise Nines Rodriguez made to you is a false check. You are smart enough to realize that. Coming to me was-"

"_Heartless as hell! But the right call, I know. And I went through all this with you already, gumdrop, so there's no finagling to do. Tore me apart to make the decisions I did, but a little woman's gotta' look after her own, because no one else will in this hardball town. And _you're_ my go-to-girl, Woeburne – I feel very strongly about that." _Her flattery is a sinister thing – warped compliments, corrupt intimations, bad energy. Serena feels duress like lead poisoning, heavy in her veins. _"Nines Rodriguez is a dangerous line on your datebook and mine. I know you have a very Ventrue way of cleaning up problems. You know it's in my interests to keep quiet about your mess-ups, because you obviously have a camera full of mine. Finally, I have the… well, to be just so horribly frank, songbird – blackmail – to make sure you keep your tongue tied tight about everything that's happened. Now, I'm not so vicious as to up and sock you for no good reason. You and I share the same objective; I'm just offering bonus incentive. Sometimes a bit of extra motivation is all your people need to make the mountains move." _It is a pregnant piece of prophecy.

Woeburne waits for the wireline.

She does not have to idle long. Voerman's smirk is palpable against a curtain of static as the beachside manipulator rolls her neck and pitches: _"I'll tell you where he's heading if you blank whatever you handed the boss a few days back, declare any evidence Therese throws against me fake, then never breathe a word of all this messiness again. Oh, yes,"_ she adds, somber. _"Knowing what I know now, I have to assume it was you. No hard feelings, though, sweetikins. You're going to fix our Anarch Problem."_

Every fixed problem birthed ten more.

Dead giants give rise to a new generation of hunters.

"Give me an address," the Seneschal hears herself say – the voice is too stoic to come from within. She is not collected enough to fear for her life. Not yet.

"_Oh, _you_! I knew you would!_" Jeanette's delight is the manufactured and falsehearted display of those who take their victories at others' expense. There are no moral foibles or second-guesses knotting this woman's psyche into a cat's cradle. She is a perfect Kindred creature._ "I'll check with my contacts, babe, and I'll get you to-the-minute coordinates just as soon as I can."_

"Do it."

"_You can count on that. Oh. And God save the Prince,"_ she toasts, a sneer on her maw, _"because the mages sure won't."_

It is unclear which one of them hangs up first.

Ms. Woeburne clicks down the telephone, crunches across her bloodstained den carpet, and returns to the desk chair that waits.

Her feet are on the ground again. They are naked, hurting, harmed by minor caltrops; she twists calf over knee to assess the damage, and such inconsequential injuries mark the return of humanness. This apartment is brightly-lit and orderly and washed in chemical scrub. The rooms she lives in are organized, civilized, sensible. There is no wilderness here. Sebastian's Childe is safely inside again; the barriers between instinct and ego are back. Flat glass separates her from the unmapped realm that lies beyond city borders. For all the ambition young inheritors like her cannot escape – for all the posturing, land-grabs, and this great race – she is glad for it. She does not want to knock through. Well-bred monsters, after all, can remain among their properties and prizes and their material things without growing weak like lesser beings. Finesse clans need not run with the horses and fox to whet their appetites. Ventrue are like Dobermans – they stalk, they eat, they brutalize – but they are domestic hounds. She belongs in here.

But you do not forget when you free-fall.

Last night, when Nines Rodriguez died, Serena had thought her cruor would plaster the walls of a smashed cable car. It was a plunge that could have killed her – fire and impalement sores leave no need to question the mathematics of it all. But despite the certainty of boulders and burst beams, there yet remained an element of protection. She had still been fenced-in; plummeting through the dark and feeling the weightlessness of descent, she was solitary, but still enclosed. That was the wisdom of being controlled. Your limits are built so they might splinter before your body does. But there was a moment afterwards. There was that horrid moment when the earth forked up, crunched through metals, her box broke against the rock face.

She had not known falling until Serena stood up – alone as she has ever been, and will otherwise be – at the stony base of Griffith Park.

And now her feet are on the ground again, but Woeburne is suddenly not sure the falling ever stopped.

* * *

Jyhad drives on.

Minutes pass. Blood ekes between toes. Seneschal Los Angeles is pulling a shard from the sole of her foot and sifting for an end to this shellshock when the computer screen blinks.

It is still tranquil in the downtown hotel – still peaceful, insensate, and lit. Ms. Woeburne's dismantled pistols glean neatly on the kitchen counter. Her clothing wilts. Fronds drip and curl to temples and jaw. Her body dries gradually beneath a shaft of recycled air.

Jeanette Voerman brought distraction and a time lapse; now, that familiar, automated _'bing!'_ of correspondence stitches lost minutes back together as quickly as it can. An hour has passed, Serena notices, stabbing her monitor awake with the enter key. Pixels reappear. She has a message growing stale. It is from the Regent.

**To Ms. Woeburne:**

**Please drop by our building downtown at the soonest possible convenience. Beckett and I are discussing a few practical arrangements, and we would be rude to exclude you.**

**Until then,**

**M. Strauss**

**Also, I have attached a few legal materials it would behoove you to investigate for yourself.**

The orders say much without saying much at all.

They are dispensing his assets. There was no explanation in the brief, polite e-mail, but Serena is certain this is the prerogative of prudent, professional men. It is not something LaCroix's progeny desires to think about – nor, perhaps, can she. The young Ventrue does not want to be a part of this discussion at all – damn the comfortable invitations and business sense of a blood-witch and his Gangrel surveyor – but, as with so many turns, there is little choice. One cannot ignore Jyhad. Dismiss that tiger, even for an instant, and it will bite off your hands.

There is so much she should be doing – there are fingers that quiver for a gun; bare bones that shriek for cover – but Serena has no direction at all.

She finds the files and opens them with bleary eyes and a dazed brain.

There are two documents clipped to Maximillian's note. Each shouts in frank, crowded, capital print – a hallmark of records named by Sebastian. _SCOTTSDALE, _one reads. _HENDONPROPERTY _the other. She chooses the first because that is the orderly thing to do. She will not make it to the second for another week.

What downloads is a short set of scanned papers to a selective North American bank. This holding is one of many tucked away in her Sire's logbook – pocket-change; comparably meager personal sums shuffled into a random drawer, half-forgotten in the wake of financial empires – and its title reads thus:

**PRAXIS BANK  
PRIVATE CHECKING ACCOUNT  
DESIGNATION OF BENEFICIARIES FORM**

The Childe cannot read paragraphs of legalese right now; she skims longwinded disclaimers, and skips to matters below.

**DISTRIBUTION OF ASSETS  
In the event of my death or chronic incapacitation, the following entities shall be my legal beneficiaries and granted control of the selected account. If no individual percentages are indicated, the beneficiaries will be deemed to own equal share percentages of all holdings. If no primary or contingent beneficiary is fit to assume ownership, assets will be distributed and/or liquidated via court proceedings at the behest of existing relations unless heretofore stated otherwise. **

_**Name of Individual(s):**_

Here there are five blank lines – bare rows of a faithless mogul who could trust no one. And then – printed in small, hard-pressed handwriting; scribbled quickly, as though it were a neat afterthought – one box full.

_Woeburne, Serena M.  
__**Primary Beneficiary:**_ _x  
__**Relationship:  
Share: **_

**I understand that this arrangement is binding and give full consent to the above-listed information.**

**X **_Sebastian LaCroix_

**TOTAL ACCOUNT ASSETS: **$ 8.610.300,00

Underscored; Item Three, Paragraph One, Line Two: _If no distribution percentages are indicated, the beneficiaries will be deemed to own equal share percentages of all holdings. _

One beneficiary.

One-hundred percent.

* * *

Serena M. Woeburne has never been loved.

This is a bitter reality that – after so many years insisting against it – the woman has come to accept. She has been tolerated, acknowledged, provided for. She has been relied upon, deemed useful, apprenticed. She has been tutored and praiseworthy upon occasion; she has been punished and embarrassing in others. It is a great many things for one person to be, Serena realizes. Whatever affection family, friends and mentor might have lacked, she reassures herself with this: spotlight is an uncomfortable place to stand. Being a second violin is not so dire, not so dismal as sentimental Toreador and the warbling ballads she hates declare. So the latest Childe of Prince Sebastian LaCroix is not upset with this allotted role in life. She is content with mild care. She is important, Ms. Woeburne knows, in her own modest way.

But she is not loved.

She is a contingency plan – an ace set aside, granted means and bound by blood, for a time her progenitor suspected he might need help. She is a perfect recipient of emergency funds – someone to hold keys to the bail lockbox, and assure her Sire is not held for long. If worse comes to worse, she is a panic protocol to carry out his will remotely – to preserve dominance, and guarantee short-term fulfillments of great campaigns.

She is important.

Of course, _Woeburne, Serena M._ is a dated failsafe now. Circumstance and improvised plots made her a better martyr than a silent, stagnant, steadfast backup. The Seneschal's name would have disappeared from that file soon enough. In the wake of conspiracies and ancient powers, however, Mr. LaCroix had no time to fiddle with inheritance forms. Heirship was not his concern. Emperors expire because they plan only for their own success; her survival was an unexpected variable.

She could compromise.

This document does not mete feelings from practical arrangements. It is not illuminating; it does not offer epiphanies, revoke beliefs she's harbored about the devious Prince, or alter the relationship they have carried out over decades and miles of ocean. She knows he does not love her. Love is cheap. Sebastian does not have any for his young corporal with the buttoned collars and the clockwork green stare.

But this signature– impersonal, unemotional, written here in the most basic wording – means more. It is evidence of a time when one fidgeting, high-strung Childe is trusted above anyone else in his life.

She is important. She is responsible. She matters.

Serena Woeburne has never needed to be loved. To _matter_ is enough.

She breaks down.

* * *

Nines Rodriguez's lessons were half-truths; his death is only half a lie.

When the wheel turns far enough, every spoke ends right where it began.

* * *

The Empire Arms is quiet and dark; it is filled by cool air, electronic glow, and the Seneschal who sits emptied at her desk.

_**Your Attention**_**,** Strauss says with the bold print of a king.

Everything is different; nothing has changed.


	79. Fade to Black

**Fade to Black**

Maximillian watched Seneschal Woeburne walk into their Chantry parlor from a cold December night, sensation-dead and dour, complexion as white as the straw-paper her title was made of.

Beckett noticed the woman first. Serena did not hesitate around the mazelike, upholstered corridors of this place. Airs of mysticism did not deter her by this hour, after so much else had passed; lantern oil, lion-head knocker made of brass, bookshelves, diamond wallpaper in dingy mint green. She stepped forward mostly unhindered. Her restless face revealed nothing; her stature was taut with exhaustion, overwrought nerves and nagging pain. She was not emotional. She was clean and severe, heels clicking on the shadowy wood of this weird address. She moved stiffly enough to compensate for the slight limp of her left leg. She wore black.

Beckett was already standing when Ms. Woeburne entered the lobby, but Strauss – who'd been at his ridiculous armchair – stood up. He opened with a gracious bob that she ignored.

"Ah, and here you join us. Thank you for coming. I apologize for calling you out so late into the evening, but…" Serena was not open to these pleasantries; she cut into the moment's pause, dealing her decorous Elder only a brief and soldierlike nod.

This hardness was unexpected. Their highbrow host blinked slowly at her, skin and attitude a regal blue. Moonlight flitted through the velvet drapes behind them; beams filtered through dense maroon fabric, glossing this tranquil chamber and all negotiations that had been underway. Scuffling student feet upon upstairs floorboards seemed loud against the silence. Her dark shock of hair was damp. She barely acknowledged the Gangrel, who waited quietly – notebook tucked beneath one arm – beside a desk just across this dim, musty Edwardian chamber. Then again, Sebastian's girl had never been much of a sleuth. _Ought they still call her that?_ In the wake of LaCroix's removal, perhaps this shell-shocked Seneschal would not have noticed Beckett's presence at all, were it not for one clue: his hat had been hanging in the hall.

She was abrupt and coal-eyed and biting at the bit. "What have you done with—?"

"It will be as I said, I assure you," the Tremere guaranteed, waving a hand. Regent Los Angeles's patience was showcased with his soft, deep voice and no offense taken at a high-strung Childe's etiquette infractions. Maximillian only straightened his crimson coat. "We will hold Mr. LaCroix in a protected location until his trial and the details thereof can be arranged. Our bureaucracy may not be as formal or as open as what you are accustomed to, but make no mistake: we take procedure very seriously."

The Ventrue remained standing. Serena's mind shouted a firm _no _and that drawn expression did not twitch, but "I want to see him," her mouth said – she did not know why.

"I am afraid that would be impossible," Strauss apologized.

The relieved Seneschal accepted this with no argument. She'd likely expected as much. Stepping through the garage exit of Venture Tower shut all alternate routes to Sebastian LaCroix's side. Whatever his fate – whatever the verdict of their Prince's angry court, unsympathetic to a dethroned magistrate, dismissed for too many nights – Childe knew instinctually that she had seen the last of her Sire. At least on private terms. At least as she remembered him: authoritative, calm, with fury that terrified his lessers. The Board's ultimate decision would not become reality for a while yet, but were sure to see their wishes met before any public announcement was made. Few Kindred would know beforehand what was to become of the ousted Los Angeles mogul. _Woeburne_ was a legitimate officer – had been, at least – but even in Sebastian's reign, her name had not ranked high on that exclusive list.

Serena stalled in the Regent's painted reading room. Her eyes were open, but they saw nothing.

"Did you look through the files I sent you, Ms. Woeburne?" Maximillian asked; the perpetual dust of Tremere nodes wafted around them as she twisted sharply, disturbed, to look at him. One socket had swollen yellow, cheek ridge dotted with broken vessels. Her jaw tightened where silence had let it grow slack. She wore no makeup.

"Yes. Yes, I did." The woman pursed her lips, cleared her throat. That was all she would say.

It was a mollifying compliment he gave. "Ah. Good. I'm sure you will put to sage use whatever resources you have. But there is yet another matter – the one that prompted my rude request for your presence here tonight."

They did not have long to tie these loose ends, danglers left by Prince LaCroix; there were only three hours left until daylight broke the monsters' ball. It snipped meetings short by necessity. It kept them moving, predators all.

The Ventrue finally spotted Beckett, then; with a significant start, she about-faced to take in the table-sized slab of ancient stone that loomed before him. Her Sire's Sarcophagus waited sullenly where it had been deposited just behind one of the Regent's scarlet sofas. The contrast was outrageous. Ms. Woeburne has juggled the administrative work of two dozen LaCroix Foundation Ponzi schemes at any one time within these past forty years, a summary of her afterlife… but somehow does not see the thousand-pound coffin. She is not sure how she did not process it before. Biblical portraits stared down at etchings, eyes contemptuous in their frames; nubby black carpet rumpled around a colossal base. Massive, dead and ominous, it sat in the study like a centerpiece to all this wizardry.

"Quite a white elephant, isn't it," Beckett noted; his sketchbook, full of drawings and glyph rubbings, was tucked in a trench pocket.

"I don't know what's in it," Serena shot out, panic doubling upon her rushed, businesslike tone. She glanced from mage to historian with severe kelly eyes. "You're asking the wrong person if you want a consult. I have no information about the Ankaran Sarcophagus. I've got no real idea what he hoped to find. That's the truth." (Their young Seneschal swore such as though her word – so insistent and so bitterly Ventrue – was enough of a guarantee. Fortunately, Strauss needed no recommendations from a junior officer. They all knew well enough what power-hungry Sebastian LaCroix thought to find in an ancient's coffin.)

"I wouldn't ask you to analyze the contents of an artifact, child," Maximillian told the tense Foreman, smiling mildly at her presumptions. The Gangrel's face registered its skepticism. This entire meeting had been a farce since the Prince's stunned little soldier marched in through those dismal mahogany doors. "Fortunately, we have Beckett for that. And he has done an excellent job. My concerns in regards to the sarcophagus are now of a practical nature, nothing more. Storage, safekeeping… ownership, among other things." The Tremere cleared his throat into an enormous fist. "Griswold?" he called into an adjacent hallway.

Jones – staid, suited, no worse-for-wear – stepped through the corridor and into his master's private library, cheekbones frighteningly pale, hoary stare reflecting nothing. Jet hair and vest bled into the ill-lit luxury of this strange space. His voice was a drawl. Camarilla operative and Chantry Apprentice – they were distressingly, glaringly alike. One hovered bereft of her commander while the other stood sullenly abreast of his. "At your order, Sir."

They were both beneath Beckett's concern, of course, but nothing was below the old scholar's notice. Serena looked at Strauss's inhospitable left hand as though he had risen from a bad memory. There was nothing to say.

Not between tonight's two pawns, at least; Regent Los Angeles, a mediator by his own standards, is never short on guiding comments or pocket wisdom for the impressionable, influential youth. He knows his minion well. He is interested, however, in what his defunct Prince's clean-cut corporal will do… first with a façade of power, and then – should subject perform well – the reality. This is not his only option, of course; it is merely a convenient possibility. Serena Woeburne presents potential untapped.

If a politician breaks all his puppeteer strings, the backroom must improvise. If an ambitious ruler throws his bit, you are left making do with the next-best mouthpiece. Maximillian Strauss had no desire to dance about onstage swinging company swords and shouting far-reaching oaths when one could easily find a director's chair in the dark. The real work is done here. Schemes succeed when they are out-of-sight; sovereigns bloodily lose their heads because they believe authority has built a wall between their ventures and their discontent advisors. Sebastian LaCroix had outgrown his collar in a tower top. Perhaps it would still fit nicely on a salvaged protégé.

The Regent's spectacles glinted. Embers spat themselves dry in the fireplace behind him.

"You understand, I think, the significance of this object. Whether that significance is genuine or mere superstition, it cannot be dismissed. I do not want a shift in our administration," he decided, "to become grounds for violence. This is a delicate accessory; it must be controlled quietly, not auctioned or fought over. Remember that we do not yet know the Kuei-Jin's full role in all this, nor what motives our Prince may have given to Ming-Xiao. It would be most ill-advised to provoke the priestess before she makes her claims. – if she even decides to chance the retribution from our community, that is. For now, it is too early to know. And besides… I believe we are all tired of hearing our Primogen squabble for the year?" A common tactic, Beckett is sure. Self-denigration – eye rolls, light slaps across the wrist, disparaging comments – always wins approval when there are bargains to be made. 2012 already teeters on its end. "Do you agree, my friend?"

He was speaking to the expert now. There was no confusion over this direction change; no fulsome, orphaned blueblood ancilla would dare to esteem herself a warlock's friend. Beckett does not care, really. He shrugged indifferently, hands-in-pockets. Why ought one listen to the construction of lies when real arrangements are already obvious? "Of course. Absolutely."

Two votes, and it is settled. "I'm glad we have a consensus, then. Let us speak of how to secure it. I would hate for such a priceless find to devolve into a Nosferatu auction."

"You should-" She remembered her old place and stopped short. Not '_you_.' One never forfeits political standing in Jyhad, even as an organizer rather than a monarch; it is hazardous to pass the buck in this world. It is an admirable attempt at propriety; doubtful Ventrue revert to their rulebooks, but Serena quoted court policy as though she was not aware of Strauss's selfish intentions. Girl was like a slingshot standing before the wizened Regent. Brave Seneschal… or, at least, a very bewildered one. "I should contact the senior Board, at least. We can't just close the case. We must make quorum before signing off on a decision like this."

The Tremere smiled at her. It was the look of patronizing, clever councilors; he viewed Woeburne like one might a boy scout. Little captain, scowling face, so much import in tiny shoes. Her duties and the codes of conduct that structure them are a fine set of blinders. Does LaCroix's well-groomed progeny truly think she has a voice, or is this strength a symptom of grief delayed? "You are correct, of course. And in any other circumstance, I would not argue otherwise. But this is not a usual circumstance. I can, however, understand your concerns. Perhaps I should not make executive decisions for my peers. Perhaps I should rescind my say in favor of a neutral party."

Strauss's far-seeing eyes were imperceptible behind the glare of fine glass.

"And what do you think should be done with your Sire's legacy, Seneschal?" he asked. The flames that lingered behind him dinned upon old wood. "I defer the decision to you."

The illusion of choice – limestone carvings, chiseled figures in jade, a false aura of agency. Every turn in this game was propelled by the brittle illusion of choice. It is a sham choice of who to follow, how to behave, which ideals to pin on your breastbone; it is a masquerade of government nomination, heroes to venerate, villains to decry. Ultimately, it is an illusion of choice _how_ and _why_ you live as Kindred. Serena Woeburne stared at Regent Los Angeles that night well aware how fragile the guise of power was. You are posed questions, but they are only fishing bait for purposes that lie deeper than you can know. You make decisions when you are allowed – you issue instructions, suggest action – but a young beast manipulates nothing. It is no more than a parlor trick. _Choice_ is all part of the game they play.

The importance is not in your choices; it is in the answers you give.

They had been people once, she knows. Even after all this – when the death tolls were in and their vicious plots left spinning out to completion – these schemers were not always the monsters they became. What cause had a barbarian king marched for in a time he, too, could believe in something? What spit-shined corporal had Sebastian been, with riding boots and polished buttons? How many downfalls had Maximillian Strauss orchestrated as the man's complexion rotted the color of his heart; where did the Voerman twins jump rope, two little girls in high-knit socks? And what had become of that faded memory of a steadfast, serious, studious young woman – who did not talk back, who'd never thought so awfully highly of herself, whose concerns for her future career seemed so small now? Jyhad cut down enough victims that a Childe soon became inured to the loss of their masters, but you never square with the loss of yourself.

If you are lucky, you forget. If you are not: you die again.

Ms. Woeburne rounded the preposterous furniture of this place; she crossed her arms, and fixed that tomb with an icy, desensitized frown. "Beckett," the girl mulled aloud. He – standing there silently, pen tucked in a coat pocket, pencil behind one ear – was surprised she addressed him. Austere, intensive eyes fixed unflinching upon the dancing figure of Lamastu. Her demon pups are wretched things, clinging to their hellion mother with canine muzzle and boar snout; they sink their teeth into prehistoric flesh. But Lilith and her ilk are child-killers. She sweats blood instead of milk. "Are you through studying the sarcophagus to your liking?"

The Gangrel managed a sigh. There was never enough _time_, these nights – but this was a challenge he'd come to accept, for worse than the notion of death were thoughts of leaving so many mysteries unsolved. "Honestly, no. But if the risk of it is this immediate… well." His stare joined hers on the suckling curs – a rapacious pair of twins. _'Another spoil lost,'_ was all this man could think. Beckett is a scholar before he is a beast; when one hand ran the length of coffin lid, his concerns were apparent. There is a golden lock with twenty latches. There is a key they must not use. It is unfortunate, but as even he has had to learn: Kindred often must sacrifice success in the name of survival. Fingertips tripped along a broken horn of what might have once been Anu's face. He still felt primordial dirt, evidence of a hundred digs, stuck beneath his nails. "The term is: 'Pandora's Box'."

Serena knows somewhere behind the tin plating that, a Ventrue's Childe, she has always been alone. She has never had a loyal shield. There has never been a time in which the woman's maneuverings were anything but bullet-points on her Sire's blueprints; her freedom was a capped and pre-mapped one. Unfortunately, lackluster guidance does not always translate to independence. It is still difficult to choose your own direction. But perhaps the dangers of being expendable have done more than jeopardize her life; perhaps it planted a seed, germinated the personal grit needed to survive. As with so many things: only time will tell.

All Ventrue inevitably grow into the same devil. Whether this one will live long enough to reach that status is unsure; what _is_ certain is that tonight will shape Los Angeles in days to come, and in doing so, forge the next generation of Princes and Barons.

The Seneschal's hands flattened on a coffee table. Her stance was tired and hunkered; it was not immature.

"Good," she said, and after some time, Woeburne turned her gaze to Strauss. "Destroy it."

"_Destroy_ it, sir?" Jones, silent until now, choked at this suggestion. Suddenly present, the grave Apprentice flustered sharp to address his overlord; he is still a hound, but ancilla warlocks are rarely drooling lapdogs.

In a moment that startles both Beckett and Maximillian, Serena straightens up and confronts her new puppeteer's pet raven directly. The agent's molars bite together, muscles swelling in his jaw; shallow age lines deepen in a Kindred face that is awkwardly grey for its status. "Yes. Destroy it," the woman ordered. One could not tell if her newfound authority was a product of insecurity or because she had been granted permission to rule. The officer's expression was indeterminate in its strength. "Melt it down into liquid metal. Crush it to rubble. Burn it completely. I never want to see this goddamned sarcophagus again, do you understand?"

Jones looked urgently from old world patriarch to new age administrator. A born Tremere – a miser of oddities and magic – his blood burbled at her suggestion; wasteful calls threatened to shake the servant's blank, soulless, disconcerting calm. "But Seneschal-"

This interruption crept precariously close to a rumble. "_Destroy it_," was her decision, and the Ventrue said little else. "And do it now."

Regent LA did not comment; he tilted a nod to his pupil, nothing more. It was done. The look they shared – albeit peripheral – was significant; it communicated more than either meant for public ears. _Destroy it?_ Jones stood beside the fireplace's iron cage for ten unspoken seconds before he bowed, acquiesced, and left to follow through.

"Very well," the Apprentice snapped, stepped through a rear threshold, and clapped off into a labyrinth of Chantry corridors. His quickness was familiar. It was not consoling. A door shut somewhere and echoed off these madhouse willow walls.

The terse "thank you" Serena offered was as belated as it was unnecessary.

Beckett watched Maximillian Strauss cross the lavish chamber, lulling in this half-light, and select one thin-lipped bottle off a bookshelf top. Ink-black blood sloshed within. Its base left a hoop in all the dust; an assortment of geodes, cracked to brilliant oranges and murky purples, rested beside the open space where vintage used to sit. He removed three scotch glasses from a nearby cupboard, poured them full with languid skill. Firelight trickled through vitae and crystal until it shone blue.

The Primogen gave no toast. He handed out each cup, hoisted his, and they drank.

Perhaps it was better this way. There was no need for ceremony or longwinded dedications. This was hardly a celebration for anyone but the overgenerous, conniving Tremere; his associates were made fine company by their need and dark suspicions. Beckett could not claim to care for politics. After all… unfinished research – cut short by a series of events both violent and frightening – meant there remained very little in this city to interest a wandering wolf like him. Some genteel Regent's de rigueur meeting did not bear upon his future. But for these two Camarilla speakers, it was a beginning and an end to business; with a quiet _chink_, fresh dialogues opened and unseemly ones shut. Strauss sipped like a gentleman. Woeburne's mouth twisted around their grim communion, but she steeled, and the survivor drank it all.

The fire died as they lounged there in stagnant air. Maximillian was the only one to sit – and he did so briefly, great arms settling over the plush of his kingly chair.

"It's late," Serena observed; she held an empty glass in her bandaged hand.

"Indeed it is." The Regent rose almost as soon as he'd settled – upwards motion, scarlet lapels and assuredness of clout. He was a polite and daunting host. "Let us call it a night, then. With this matter decided, we can sort through the remainder tomorrow evening, when decrees should be put into paperwork. I will send along any other points of interest I find, of course. And I will alert you the moment my superiors pass on more information about the upcoming proceedings… as well as the issue of succession. For now, though, I believe we are all due a short rest." A stare that was disconcerting in its patience relaxed upon the Seneschal. She did not move. She did not breathe. "You may come see me whenever you like, Ms. Woeburne, if you find yourself in need of advice in the coming days. I am always available. And the both of you are always welcome here."

"You've been very hospitable," the Ventrue told him; her gratitude was sincere, but it reeked smartly of wariness. It was impossible to determine if her understatement was intentional or another product of stress.

Strauss was not offended by struggling social graces. He never was. "It is the least I can offer. Not to belabor my point, but in these past few nights, you have more than proved your mettle to our organization. Your discretion in this matter – and your courage – was appreciated. I made sure my supervisors were aware of your role. We will find some way to formally commend you once the red tape has been cleared away. Los Angeles is, as per its usual, starved for up-and-coming talent."

There were a thousand things Beckett could have said – countless little needles to undermine this charade. But he was, by choice and design, a bystander; interfering in local governance had never been his place. And it would not have changed things. LaCroix's protégé was not jejune enough to be met with friendliness and trust it as anything but manipulators wheezing hot air. Maximillian was not weak-kneed enough to let some overly-accredited child's opinions of him warp the course of his campaign. It is a game of give-and-take; for all the malice and bloody meat, it is a civil tablecloth they eat upon.

Beckett prefers to take his meals elsewhere. He contemplated as four anonymous Chantry suits slipped into their chamber – so little bustle for such massive cargo – and set about wheeling the Ankaran Sarcophagus away. A stitch of regret mingled with the chill that casket had been prickling down his spine as of late. Woeburne demanded its destruction, yes, but her word was a fragile one beyond the ostentatious title. With no Sire, the Seneschal's diktats may has well have been wind howling at a steel break. Some cold may seep through, but the brunt force no longer factors; it is deflected by a solid wall. Who would expect pure fealty from a monopolizing blood-witch, especially with items of power? Who could truly say where it would go?

'_Goodbye, opportunity,'_ the Gangrel thought, and watched as a neonate taped tarp over the weathered stone. His sole reason for staying in California slid onto their industrial dolly with a decisive _bang_. It was stowed and strapped down. It was gone.

Time to wrap up now. Time to move.

In the center of this antiquated, tome-buried den, Strauss handed the Seneschal an envelope. They whispered something about inheritance, claims and pending conferences. She clutched it fiercely by one side.

Yes, Beckett had seen leashes change hands more nights than he could count through the fog of three-hundred years.

Rank stripes be damned – Serena, the good corporate musketeer, was still waiting to be dismissed. She was all squared shoulders and jutted chin; utilitarianism, cleanliness and order quarantined the aftershocks of a broken collar. Room temperature droplets smeared the glass she'd set upon a side-table. The Regent cleared his throat to pave over her militant unease.

"Thank you for being so diligent, Ms. Woeburne." When she did not initiate a handshake, the great patron took fraternity into his own. It was not difficult to make LaCroix's Childe jolt to full attention; a second's brush of one paw on her forearm shot the woman's shoulders up her neck. Strauss sighed. "I should have known it would end like this. What a waste," he lamented, shaking his head. Maximillian picked up her drained cup and kindly took the historian's, as well. Beckett made a face that went unseen. "I don't mean to give the wrong impression; rest assured, you performed beyond all my expectations. But Sebastian LaCroix was never a well-rounded Prince, I fear… he wanted more than our masters could provide. His reach extended his grasp and our chain. I wonder how things might have been different had he the prudence to listen."

He paused. He looked at her like one does a conservatory orange.

"How well do you listen, I wonder?" Strauss posed – and, with a slight bent to one knee, the august Tremere wished them goodnight, disappearing through his parlor door.

The Ventrue stood crunching her papers before an ash-black woodpile.

"Cordially cryptic, as always," Beckett concluded – he gave smothered, soundless Woeburne a small smile and a shrug. Serena skittered as though she forgot the lion in the room. "At least there were refreshments."

The grin she managed was barely more than a wince – lopsided, dismal, and farther from joy than despair. A rocky gulp pushed its way down her throat. Wet locks, once combed straight, had dried into a distraught field of wiry brown. Blood patches darkened the gauze looped through her fingers, rusting. There were bruises sunk too deep beneath the child's olive eyes. "I'm beginning to feel like I may have made a terrible mistake," she laughed, a brittle and crumbling sound.

Scholar had no consolation for industry soldier. Such a creature's only comforts were nonchalance and the signature, blasé pinch of his voice. "You're young yet," Beckett reminded her, cocking one eyebrow behind a screen of black hair. "Every single thing you do is a terrible, horrible, irredeemable mistake to _someone_. Mucking up other vampires' scams is an essential rite of passage for your clan. Surely you've figured that out by now."

"Yes, I just…"

The Gangrel waited for her to finish. He took a packet of excavation photographs off Strauss's cherrywood desk and tucked them inside his satchel. There was a case of fiscal documents just beneath, but he let those lie. His interests were focused, and they were finite.

"You'd just hope it would matter," Serena murmured, shoulders giving a sore, sad bump in the Chantry's dim bottega.

"You would. And to a precious few players, turns like these can make all the difference in the world. Jyhad _can_ change a clever ambitioner's lot in the game, given a special set of conditions… provided every piece falls into place just so. But for the rest of us? It rarely – if ever – does." What was the dividing line between a Regent's assurances and this explorer's summaries?: his tone was honest and his bank accounts stood nothing to gain. You could trust Beckett. You could not rely upon his aid, his presence or promises, but you could believe what the distinguished adventurer said. His word was better than any social climber's; it was stronger and more genuine than hers. "In my eyes, one shouldn't waste their time building glass houses and praying the stones all land south. The best we can hope for is to live, and to learn what we can along the ride."

This was Beckett's only conclusion. The pent-up air slithered out of her chest. He gave LaCroix's progeny a frank, heartening look. "Exhausting, isn't it?"

"I don't know how I'm still standing," she chuckled. A tear ran down the right side of her face. They both ignored it until Woeburne could wipe it away.

"You'll do what you have to, I'm sure."

The Ventrue nodded quietly as though to confirm this confidence to herself. There was moisture upon her knuckle – remnants of regret – but these disappeared easily enough into a blazer wrinkle. It was not much of an interval for weakness, yet it was enough space to smelt softening guts to metal again. That was that.

Something occurred to her – due cause to fidget around a painful, hand-wringing grin. "I never did thank you, did I?"

"Don't. You may have escaped the dogs, Ms. Woeburne, but you are hardly out of these woods yet."

The Seneschal swallowed. Her expression turned wry; it curled, fought itself sober, and reached a finality that showed more wisdom than she'd earned. There was a staunch resignation that preserved her. In stress and commitment, LaCroix's Childe wore shadows of the delegate she might become. "You're right about that. You're very right. This is far from over," Serena acknowledged, glancing to the crushed Turkish throw-rug where a sarcophagus sat only minutes ago. Its weight endured. It lasted in the dark spots upon her face. "But I'll say 'thank you,' anyway… or I may not get the chance. I can't wait for a resolution. I don't think there is any _getting out_ for me."

Bleak acumen – but in this jungle, submission saved more lives than it destroyed.

Beckett tilted his head, considerate. His analysis was unsugared and blunt. "It isn't all a disaster. Los Angeles carries on, your head hasn't rolled down anyone's stage, and those bothersome Sabbat have been reduced to sniffing out rat holes. If that doesn't convince you… I suppose one devious politician or another could always have unboxed Gehenna upon the world." He smirked – half-serious, completely sincere. "Unanswered questions are always frustrating, young one. Especially for me. But there are some rocks in this world that are better off left unflipped. You don't have to take pride in your actions or your orders, but you should recognize the difference between caution and fear. Caution was merited tonight. Take what you will from that."

"I appreciate it, Beckett," she told him – nothing else. "More than you know."

"Of course. While I am not fond of political affairs, Ms. Woeburne, I have no desire to watch our kind burn themselves down. Discovery is the most important part of this existence… but when the consequences are too great, even I am better off not quite knowing. Remember that lesson, if you take away nothing else. It may serve you well." The historian indulged himself with a long, discerning blink. The masterless Seneschal watched him keenly, a fact of which he was very well-aware. "But thanks to you, your Prince's sarcophagus is safely tucked away… which means my business here is complete."

She returned his grin with a downcast, knowing semi-smile. The statement was certain, but not without disappointment: "You'll be leaving soon, then."

"Yes, I imagine I will."

Her mouth opened to speak – a farewell she may have dwelled on beforehand – but something cut Serena short. Embarrassed, she fumbled for the buzz at one hip.

"Sorry. Lord. I'm sorry; I have to take this…" Alarm ricocheted through the Ventrue's gaze when it fell upon her cellular phone; she stalked to a far corner, wedged between light scones and that suffocating curtain, to read whatever waited there. Woeburne was a worrier in control – one who fought every unknown with careful, practical tactics. Beckett did not intrude. He could not claim great curiosity; she would not divulge anything beyond the pressure that gripped her face.

The Gangrel traced plans that hatched and scurried through the circuits of their Seneschal's brain; objectives lit the whites of her eyes as they raced by. On to the next small conquest, then, priorities checked and past shelved… it was typical behavior for a blueblood. Jyhad demanded remarkable recovery time; maybe this girl could deliver, after all. Maybe she would be all right. Unlikely… but the possibility was there. "Another pressing business venture, I trust."

"No." The officer stared into her palm. A road map beeped its target quietly into Maximillian Strauss's deathlike drawing room. "A mistake."

She shut it off. She dropped it into a jacket fold, looking sure, and yet somehow stunned.

"I have to go," Woeburne said; the frail goodbye was more fitting than any speech she could've written under cubicle lamplight.

He dipped his head. They were two different creatures – posts at either side of a fork in the road – but it was understood.

The child drifted there for a precious handful of moments. There was nothing else to keep Beckett here – no other means with which to distract the scholar who even now gathered his scant belongings, closing buttons on a trench coat. He poured another half-glass of vintage in the stillness, collecting notes, double-checking bag locks; he took it with him when he moved to exit. The worn akubra was set safely in its place upon his crown. No facility guards; no fanfare; no file of council members demanding explanations or courtesy gestures… only an open door into the blue color of night. Theirs was a silent curtain call.

Serena did not try to delay. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She looked through frosted glass and out at the moonlit streets beyond.

He had only just stepped on the foyer hardwood when a voice held him back.

"Professor," the girl called. Her hands were hanging open. She stared out at sanguine Los Angeles with inheritance money, a tenuous future, and a past ringing softly in one pocket. "Beckett. Where does one turn from here?"

Beckett drank the last of his cup; old blood settled between an old rover's teeth. He thought it over.

"I'd imagine any way you please," the white wolf said. He left.


	80. The Desert

**The Desert**

The road from Los Angeles is lonely and dark.

On the road to Los Angeles, you will move through wasteland, industry and sprawl. Shadows more ominous than any alleyway eat at tire treads and consume headlights; shouts, squeals and motors of an urban jungle are smothered by the openness of _too much space_. It is quiet out here. The low, balmy buzz of desolate land lingers until the wash of metropolis reaches out to push it away. Barrenness cedes to driveways and steelworks. Southern flatland wanes beneath cement and signs and office buildings. Suburban lawns replace scrub forests; dunes sink beneath skyscrapers; airport runways lunge from the conifers and ocean steppes. It rises from nothing – brighter and bloodier, louder and coarser, thicker and bloodier still – until you are there: _The Angels_.

At the black horizon it stands: a city that spires up from vast, dry nothingness. They say that Angeltown is haloed in mist, that the smell of ozone and vapors is her streets breathing deep. It is a blur – a vagueness of shapes, of objects in motion, of black towers in steam. Antennas cut through as they arc at the end of the interstate, humming brilliantly. _There_ is a bastion ensconced in haze. Out here is a bone-dry wilderness. Past concrete and streetlights, beyond iron and glass, it is all white sand. The Angels are surrounded by dead salt; the road to Los Angeles leads to civilization, its triumphs shrouded in chemical smog.

But the road from Los Angeles is lonely and dark – it leads to hunger, drought, desert.

Nines Rodriguez's stolen Shelby hits the spike strip on an abandoned stretch of sandy road; tires scream, grind smoke, and swerve sharp to where everything stops in this parched winter grass. Burnt rubber chokes cool air. Hot metal clinks to fill silence. Steam wafts white and clean from tarmac to hollow sky – the car is as black as the night outside.

The desert is an endpoint; white sands are the turf of defeat.

The Brujah claws for a gun when moonlight sparks against a Jag fender, lying in wait within some dusty roadside ditch. Perhaps his hands do not work properly. Perhaps he already knows his hour has passed. Perhaps it is merely that fatigue and wounds make him not fast enough. Either way, it is a futile effort; a simple trick. There is no one in the parked cockpit. Its seat is vacant, and rearviews show only emptiness – an obvious, slapdash decoy. He wastes his bullets on windshield glass.

She smashes through the passenger side; the snout of her handgun cracks a dozen tiny shards.

Serena Woeburne stands on the blacktop with deadened eyes and a stare that seems to pierce one-thousand miles.

Nines looks back at her with half a face.

He can do nothing else than that. His expression is blank. Dark hair does not hide the contusions, lacerations, brands of a dozen private battles lost. Wolf teeth have ripped off more than skin. Fangs broke pride down to something mauled and honest; Garou claws rived away the front wall of leadership and left only marrow, bruises, meat. She can see the puncture wounds – gored tissue, crunched plates. There is nothing but raw flesh from his eyebrow to the stippled track of his jaw. Large hands hang heavily on the steering wheel; their rings are dull. Silver eyes, deeply-sunken flecks of metal in a murky gaze, claim no thrones or titles. He does not try to persuade her. He does not move. A hemisphere of him is gone.

His mouth opens – and it closes, soundless, to a brutal hammer click.

There will be no talking. There were so many steps that ended here.

Bullets, classified correspondence, phone calls made in secrecy and hushed voices; charred asphalt; pressures both domestic and foreign; Bertram Tung snuck into _Brothers Salvage _sales yard, his tracking node clipped inside a gearbox; Jeanette Voerman's crooked dealership. A pyre made of the golden hills. You could not put a word to it, what this night meant, but the lines of history in their very tangled web all met at a precipice here. There was always the portent of death between them: a finite, pointed shot. It did not need justification. She could trace the anchors back, back, back.

All she has worked for is here at the muzzle of her pistol. It is _pointblank_.

Serena Woeburne's blood runs cold through ice-blue veins. Clean and Roman, the young Ventrue does not waver; there is no sympathy, no second-guessing, no vacillation. The handgun is heavy and damning against her fingers. She can feel how easy this sleek trigger will give, how sure his death will be at the other end of the barrel. She does not feel anything else. She has no need to taunt or parry or make it hurt. Hesitance, fear and consequence shock will not stop her. It is changed now. Serena Woeburne now knows that she can point this weapon and kill him.

This is going to be different than Griffith Park, gasoline burns and lead in her breastbone. This will not be like before. That much is clear.

Nines swallows the lump in his throat. There is no movement. The wind outside scrapes against the flattened front wheels. The city is a quiet, persistent roar beyond the badlands.

It is not the scene that Serena had mapped for herself. She had expected a fight. She had expected a modest renegade outfit dashing into bandit caves, agitated San Francisco enlistees hauling astrolite cans, a smuggling operation carting explosives and blackmail – a violent last-ditch siege, propelled by hate instead of real victory hopes. She has expected wrong. There are no young rebels here. It is only him. It is only Nines Rodriguez, ghost of a Baron; it is only the blue eye that looks up from these red, mangled remains of a face.

He is beaten. He is not arming a trench. He is trying to run.

"Looks like you killed me after all, London," the old Anarch says. She can barely hear him over the quiet that deafens her ears.

Everything is suddenly close. Yellow lights wink by across these plains – other drivers, other bodies in-transit, other roads – unaware of what transpires here. This is not their lane. This is a crossroads, and the fork is as evident as a blood moon in a cloudless December sky. She can see the possibilities, blunt and palpable; there are only two. She could pull the trigger, plaster his brains all over the dashboard… and yet Serena finds that – now that the power to end Nines Rodriguez's echo of a life is hers – the desire is no longer there.

Woeburne stares at him across the nozzle and broken glass. It is over. She knows this, and he must, too – for defeat darkles on the Brujah's vacant gaze, plain and unhidden by lies. Whatever she is at this unknown time – whatever council seats or scraps of authority are left for a Princeless Seneschal – one Ventrue Childe holds the ability to erase a scar upon the calm, orderly world her master campaigned for. She is able physically, mentally, emotionally. Ancient resentment still glistens. Her pupils flicker like molten carbon; they show no indecision at all.

But the need is gone.

It is empowering; it is disappointing. A hundred twists have prepared her for this second. His road has been a rocky one but it ends here. All that remains is to accept it – and Serena can see he already has. There is such a sincere, profound look of resignation in the vampire's nickel eyes that – just as she does not doubt her ableness to kill – she does not question his readiness to die.

In this, she sees no covert aims or vicious goals or ticking coups. She sees the blue reflection of herself standing at the other end of a gun.

_Do you have a choice?_

Serena clutches the pistol. There is darkness ahead. Behind her, Los Angeles is a soft burn.

"Yes," she agrees, breathless, though there is no reason why. "Yes, I did."

Imperceptivity – fingers loosening – enough to make everything slow.

"That man is gone," the corporal insists; her throat constricts, the sting of making a decision no one will see. There is no Board here to force unkind, self-serving critiques. There is no Elder to disapprove. There is no contract. Nothing protects her from the regrets and future repercussions of her choices anymore – at least not tonight – and it changes something in this slender brink. Serena Woeburne knows what she knows. Sebastian LaCroix lost his crown this evening. Beckett has wandered into the next enormous mystery. Nines Rodriguez the Anarch Martyr died in the fires of Griffith Park. There is only a Ventrue with her past poured into the side of this uninhabited road. This night is so clear to her that she can hardly see.

"What's left over isn't my business. The Baron is dead," Serena swears. What's truth is true because somewhere on the edge of desert, hates boiled up, a Ventrue does not permit it to be anything else. It is genetic destiny. It is how they function. "I don't know who you are."

It is the kind of snake she is.

"You understand that," she murmurs – to herself, to her old enemy. It is not a certain thing. There is not so much distance. They know that, too.

So Woeburne tries again – helpless, shrugging, bitter green eyes a narrow imposition. "Don't you?"

It's over. Actions are the only means to true understanding in this game. She asked, but there is nothing really left unsaid.

The woman tightens. Her mouth is thin, and her curt goodbyes reveal nothing – nothing but a small, familiar discomfort. It is an order with no room for defiance. She looks away. "Don't come back."

Serena does not let him say anything. There's no mutually respectful nod. There's no wordless exchange of gratitude or fraternity between beasts who have run each other down. There's no squaring flash of eye contact. Woeburne thrusts the smart pistol back to her side, about-faces, and retreats to her idling car. She offers him no help and no more antagonism. She does not look back in her rearview – does not hesitate, wondering, unable to shake the feeling that there is something left undone. Her braid clips between the Ventrue's shoulder blades. Her windows are tinted; they enable her to disappear. There is no farewell.

The Jaguar pulls stiffly out of its rut; it drives off, crunching gravel, until there Woeburne is only a steel glint that fades back into the far-off city smog.

Nines Rodriguez sits speechless on the highway.

The road from Los Angeles is still tonight. Sand gleans coolly in the delicate hours before dawn; the miasma settles; heat glides above the colder tracks of this dim season. Coyotes pant through rocks for mice. Palms from a nearby shore carry sea brine on the wind, an acrid and nostalgic smell, one that makes this humbled Brujah's stomach hurt for everything he has and has not lost. Cars pass in the distance. Old blood dries between his fingers; glass twinkles across the shotgun seat. It feels like there is nothing left. It feels like something is beginning. He does not know how to explain.

Nines Rodriguez sits stalled on blacktop another minute – motionless, silent, bewildered – and looks down the dark road ahead.

That's the great game.

_worst kind of lie_

_never pretended to be anything apart from what I_

_didn't have to be like this_

I gave you an out.

The Anarch reaches forward and starts his car.

The low growl of a warming motor comforts; its grumbles are strangely heartening here, stripped of Domain, alone for the first night in a very long time. He cannot define what settles upon him. A strange calm presses its roots into the hollowness beneath the Brujah's chest. A peculiar taste, ocean and zinc, peppers on his tongue. The air is full of wild, frightening scents. He faces the bite of a spent, seaward storm. This is a eulogy. But he is not dead. He is not dead, and he has never been more acutely aware of existing.

There is no destination, no cause, no fight that strengthens his hands into fists; he will drift off into this vast nothingness, another splinter of an exhausted cause. Very little is assured to the phantom of a small legend – a wolf-Prince exiled – but no night has ever been as crystal clear as this one. Maybe one day he will find a new city, a new coast, a new flock of refugees to carve his niche away from Camarilla law. Maybe not. Maybe he will fade into obscurity and that can be enough. In this zero hour, there is nothing if not possibility – endless possibility – that only comes when there is no more ground left to lose. He knows one thing for certain.

The wheel does not stop. The wheel will never stop, but there is a note of closure, here – and it is not with barefaced death. There are other routes to your final nights than death; there is a half-existence, there is power in the allowance of life, there is freedom in making decisions that are not necessarily the practical ones. He is alive and he does not know why. Tonight has brought so many things to an end.

The Free-State ends. The Free-State ends defeated. Nines Rodriguez ends the great revolution as no one at all – he is worn down to nothing more than an empty night, an open road, breakneck and bittersweet optimism.

Los Angeles goes on.

A desert stretches out before him. David drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, and left The Angels far behind.

* * *

_**From "Sleep in the Mojave Desert":**_

Out here there are no hearthstones,  
Hot grains, simply. It is dry, dry.  
And the air is dangerous.

The desert is white as a blind man's eye.

**End**.


End file.
